


I Won't Replace You

by bethepuck



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Cheating, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Sex, Toronto Maple Leafs, slight dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:23:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 84,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethepuck/pseuds/bethepuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a Bernie/Reims fic that will have a lot of chapters and get really long</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Montreal

James studies Jonathan from across the room as the other goalie loosens up his skate laces and prepares to remove them. _I can loosen my skates better than that_ , he thinks. It seems like Jonathan just kind of showed up one day for training camp, confirming that he was no longer a King, but a Maple Leaf.

James didn’t like it.

Had everyone forgotten that it was James who led the Leafs to the playoffs last year? Was he not a good enough goaltender for this faltering franchise? Now he has to compete with the previous backup of Jonathan Quick, some pretty boy with a charming smile and a sense of humor and of course the team took a liking to him immediately and was the talk of everyone around the rink. Every time Bernier grins he flashes his perfectly straight white teeth and his eyes sort of scrunch up a bit. His jawline is clearly defined and sculpted with rugged stubble constantly growing in, enough to attract almost anyone to him, male or female.

James wipes the post-practice sweat from his cheeks and throws his legpad off viciously, still glaring at Bernier. He tells himself to stop looking, that it’s weird that he is wasting so much energy on a backup. The other goalie is talking to Kessel about ping-pong or something, his eyes squinting in amusement making James instantly annoyed. He watches as his eyes brightened throughout the chat and his grin broadens so easily. Who cares? James is here to play hockey not make conversation and grin like a fool like Bernier.

The new goalie’s Maple Leafs equipment was ordered practically as soon as he had been traded and the mask, pads, and gloves just came in yesterday. With cold eyes, James watches as careful hands place the freshly painted mask onto its shelf and strip off his shirt, revealing his rippling back muscles and the two dimples at the small of his back. Bernier finishes undressing, ends his conversation with Kessel, and stalks away from the scene, leaving Reimer to sit with his thoughts once again.

Reimer tells himself he will still be the starter. This is the year we win the cup he thinks as he pushes himself further into his stall and leans his head back. James always likes to be the last to shower. It gives him time to think quietly as the steamy water rolls off his skin. It’s nice not to hear anyone’s voice for a change. As he waits, James pictures himself raising the cup high above his head, smiling as the fans at the Air Canada Centre cheer and chant his name when he makes his round. “ _Reimer! Reimer!_ ” the thought sends an epidemic of chills rushing through his veins.

“James!” A voice pierces through the fans’ shouts and forces James to open his eyes and face his coach. He nods in acknowledgement for Coach Carlyle to continue.

“Uh, since it’s Bernie’s first road trip as a Leaf, I’m assigning you as his roommate when we fly to Montreal for our season opener.”

_Wow… I only have two days to kill myself how inconvenient of Coach to tell me with such short notice_ he thinks quietly “Alright, sounds good,” James forces out, giving a thin smile that really means _fuck off man_ as Coach turns and goes about his business.

“Fucking hell,” James whispers as he leans back again and places a rag over his face to let everyone know he is not to be disturbed.


	2. Goodnight

James is sitting with a book when his phone vibrates. He finishes his page in no hurry and only then does he bother to pull his phone from the crevice it had fallen into between the cushion and the side of the chair after its message seizure. He didn’t think he would ever receive a text from this contact nor did he think he would respond to it. 

**_Jonathan Johnny Berns Bernie the best Bernier :) :) :) :_**

**_so… whats up roomie? :)_**

“He just never leaves does he?” James whispers venomously to his phone as he locks it and places it back on the armrest.  When Bernier entered his contact into James’ phone, he didn’t think that he had the humor of a twelve year old girl, but once again, James didn’t think he’d ever get the opportunity to see the ridiculous name in the first place.

 

An hour passes before the second vibration disrupts James’ reading. He knows it is Bernie before he even fishes his phone out of the chair cranny.

**_Jonathan Johnny Berns Bernie the best Bernier :) :) :) :_ **

****

**_dude i can tell you read the last text… iphones are crazy right? ;)_**

Clenching his teeth, James turns off his read receipts and locks his phone for the second time that night. He tries desperately to continue his reading, but his phone does not stop vibrating. After reading the same sentence over again for a minute straight, he unlocks his phone once again.

**_Jonathan Johnny Berns Bernie the best Bernier :) :) :) :_ **

****

**_turned off ur read receipts did ya?_ **

**_or ur ignoring me_ **

**_thats cool._ **

**_youll read these eventually_ **

**_i just wanted to talk alittle_ **

**_woops forgot to space there_ **

**_look at this new face i invented O_o_ **

**_its so weird looking right?_ **

**_anyway im psyched to sleep with you this weekend_ **

**_that came out wrong…._ **

**_i mean like in the bed next to you_ **

**_not like the same bed…_ **

**_haha u kno what i mean_ **

 

_**…**_

James glares at his phone then types back quickly only to shut Bernier up.

**_what do you want?_ **

The phone vibrates instantly in his hands.

**_Jonathan Johnny Berns Bernie the best Bernier :) :) :) :_ **

**_ur alive!!!! :D_**

Rolling his eyes instinctively he taps out: 

**_sadly yes_ **

**_Jonathan Johnny Berns Bernie the best Bernier :) :) :) :_ **

**_haha funny. so… not to brag but im probably the best roommate youll ever have_**  

James highly doubts this since he has never despised a human being so immediately in his life before he met Bernier. 

**_right…_**

****

**_Jonathan Johnny Berns Bernie the best Bernier :) :) :) :_ **

**_and im a really light sleeper so if we get attacked in the middle of the night ill wake up and save us ;) i got ur back bro_**

“You’re a bigger douche than I thought,” James mumbles replying with an “ _ **ok goodnight** ”_ to end the pain of talking to him. 

**_Jonathan Johnny Berns Bernie the best Bernier :) :) :) :_ **

**_alrighty then ill catch you later “Reims” goodnight ;)_**

“Spare me…” James huffs as he shuts his phone and shuffles to his room through his dimly lit apartment. He spreads himself out on his king size bed, staring up at the pale ceiling. He got the bed originally to share with his girlfriend who, ironically, broke up with him soon after he moved into his new apartment closer to the rink. Now he lies down every night alone, half missing her half trying to ignore the feeling, staring up into the darkness until sleep absorbs him into her sweet surrender. 


	3. Quick

After the arrival at the hotel, Bernier spread all of his suitcase contents out on his bed. He counted out two suit jackets, two ties, his training shoes, four dress shirts and pants, two lounge shirts, three pairs of boxers, six pairs of socks (dress and regular), two pairs of shorts, and a pair of sweats along with toiletries and a phone charger. He goes through the various bottles of shampoo, running his calloused hands along the labels and putting them back into his toiletries bag. He hangs up his suits immediately before Reims could claim the closet and repacks his bag so he can lie on his bed and scroll his phone.

Bernier mulls over his chances of playing in tonight’s game. Reimer is considered a living god to pretty much everyone including the coaches. He is probably everyone’s first choice as of right now. Secondly, the season opener is a big deal. It pretty much sets the scene for the entire season. So the Leafs _need_ to win this game is what it comes down to. Will they trust Bernier? Or just go with their savior? 

Reimer comes in from the lobby with two water bottles in his arms and his duffle slung over his shoulder. Bernier pulls the rim of his hat down a little farther to shield his face better. James obviously hates flying because he looks a wreck with mussed hair sticking out and a weary look on his face. He thinks it’s rather amusing, how such an important guy, the starter on the Maple Leafs, can be broken down by just one short plane ride. He should be a bit more durable than that.

Reims drops his stuff next to his bed, the one closest to the door because Bernier likes the one closest to the window so he can watch all the people below or stare mysteriously into the night sky, and removes his suit jacket tiredly. Out of the corner of his eye, Bernier notices how James loosens his tie half-heartedly and toes his shoes off, stumbling into bed with all his clothes still on. His face is shoved into the pillows and his eyes flutter shut gently as his mouth hangs open with hushed breathing as though this is how he gets into bed normally.

Glancing at his phone clock, Bernier makes a mental note that it is only 2:13 PM and the mighty James Reimer, the prized possession of the Toronto Maple Leafs, is already tuckered out and ready for nap time. He grins snidely, hauling himself up and sliding his feet into his shoes, batting at Reimer’s feet and calling, “Aye, sweet dreams, Reims!” as he strides passed the bed closer to the door and out into the hall. 

Bernier loves the vast hallways of hotels. He loves the cheap carpeting that adorns the entire building. He loves the small sampler shampoos they hand out left and right and the simple mints at the front desk. The sound his shoes make as they chafe against the carpet, a soundtrack that fills his ears during his exploration of every floor in this six-floor mansion, gives him yet another reason to enjoy hotels even more. There is no rush. The bus doesn’t leave for another hour. So he just saunters about, slowly making his way down to the lobby, where he then studies the bar and the various drink options.

Jonathan isn’t really an alcoholic, per se. He does not abstain from drinking when given the opportunity to drown a couple, and he does occasionally enjoy a drink or two on away trips. It’s not like he got much playing time in L.A. with Quick always putting on a show, so there were plenty of opportunities to get a bit tipsy after spending another game listening to the crowd ooh and ahh over their king. In all honesty, Jonathan never really liked Quick for personal reasons. When Jonathan was traded to the Leafs, he was a tad relieved to get away from quick as well as to get more playing time and be appreciated a little more by the fans. No one really noticed him in L.A., no one really knew who he was or what he could do. 

Jonathan sits with his back to the bar, reclining for maximum comfort whilst perching himself on a bar stool with his legs outstretched. He waits until his teammates begin to file into the lobby dressed in their finest suits and ties, making cool conversation and laughing while glancing up from faces to their phones. It’s about time to go and everyone is waiting on Reimer, who finally shows up looking a little off kilter with his tie in hand frantically looking around, almost as though you could tell he just rolled out of bed. Bernier imagines James waking up from his restful nap only to roll over and check the time on the hotel provided alarm clock and go white with realization that he is expected in the lobby. After this quick comprehension, the frazzled goalie sprints to the bathroom and wets his hands in an attempt to tame his obvious bed head and grabs his tie, pulling a shoe or two on as he clambers out the door.

Bernier puts on his best smile, nonchalantly grabs a magazine off the bar counter to the right of him, and joins his team. Phaneuf makes a quick head count then gives the okay to load the bus. Bernier makes his way to the back of the line behind Reimer, still wearing that million buck grin and gives the other goalie a playful tap on the backside with his newly acquired reading material. “Glad you could make it bud!” He says cheerfully, grabbing a handful of the wrapped mints in the little bowl as they pass the front desk. Reimer jumps a bit at the contact and trains his eyes on Bernier. “Mint?” Bernier holds one of the small candies out to Reimer as they shuffle toward the direction of the bus. He shakes his head no and draws a pair of earphones from his suit pocket, drowning out the distraction that is Jonathan Bernier. He doesn’t seem phased by this action and pops the mint in his own mouth instead.

On the bus, Reimer sits alone and takes a nonwindow seat, thus letting everyone know that he does not need a bus buddy to keep him entertained. Bernie just calmly walks by and only glances down to sneak a peek at the song Reims is listening to. Some country song turned up on a practically the loudest volume. Figures. He sits toward the back with Bozak and Kessel and just sort of glances at the magazine in his lap. He wasn’t really reading it at all. Just looking at the pictures and ads. He likes ads, how unrealistic and corny they can get, and the way companies use bright colors to draw readers in. Light conversation fills the bus and a light tap gives Bernier a reason to stop pretending to read and talk for a little bit.

Kessel asks him a couple questions about L.A., just the usual ones like what was the city like and how were the fans. Bernier gives a couple bullshit answers how the fans were amazing and the city was electric, but he thinks Toronto might somehow be better. Bozak starts talking about Toronto fans and the goalie tunes him out for a bit. He hated the fans in L.A. They underestimated him so much and ignored him most of the time. It was always so hot in California, which is the opposite of what he pictured “hockey weather” was supposed to feel like. Toronto is cold the majority of the year and he likes that, in fact he grew up in Canada so he was used to it.

“Eh Bernie, I heard Quick is a nice guy, is it true?” Bozak asks catching him off guard.

“Uh yeah… he’s a pretty laid back guy…” Bernier answers flatly.

“Do you two keep in touch? Everyone says you guys were really close,” Bozak asks yet another quick question.

“Sort of… we text a little here and there,” he responds fast, trying to dodge any other questions.

After that, Bernier sinks back into his seat, not really in the mood to talk anymore. Suddenly feeling queasy, he squeezes his eyes shut and pulls his hat down further. Why did Bozak have to bring up that menace? Of course he _heard_ Quick is a nice guy, because he _acts_ like a nice guy. But he’s not. Bernier remembers his first encounter with the _real_ Jonathan Quick.

Hot lips made their way down the back of his neck as precise fingers undid his dress shirt buttons from behind. The dim room was spinning terribly and he was breathing hard into the wall. Sweat appeared in droplets at the base of his back slightly above his waistband. Hadn’t he just been sitting at the bar ten minutes ago? Gentle words were whispered into his ear followed by a little nip at the shell. “I’m gonna make you feel so good.” Hands trailed down his front and to his belt. He could feel Quick’s grin against his shoulder, peering over in anticipation.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Bernier turned around abruptly to request a leave of absence only to receive a hard kiss and a sly hand delving into his boxers. The kiss was rough and desperate and something he could do without. Kisses were supposed to be gentle and passionate and this was neither. Panicking a little, he bit down aggressively on the other goalie’s lip. Quick pulled off for a split second only to press his forehead to Bernier’s and glare at him with dark eyes as though to tell him _don’t try that again tough guy_. The hand in his pants began to stroke him quickly in an attempt to get him hard with little success. “Don’t worry, you’ll get there,” Quick said panting a little as he rushed to get out of his own clothes. As soon as he got space, Bernier thought about making a break for it, but the dizziness in his head told him otherwise.

Now he remembers correctly. After their 3-1 win against the Coyotes, Bernier celebrated alone in the hotel bar by downing four beers and watching the replays of the game on the big screen TV. Around his fifth beer Quick showed up to escort him to his room because he was a good friend and Bernie was drunk as fuck. He slumped against the side of the elevator and Quick managed to herd him to their room where he came on to the intoxicated backup.

Quick sat down on the side of the bed, stroking himself and watching Bernier curiously as he leaned against the wall. Most of his clothes were at his feet by now and he was standing in his socks and boxers, using the wall to keep him upright. He remembers so well the feeling of his steaming back pressed up against the cool and comforting hotel wall, trying to melt into it. The sweat that had accumulated there on his skin was slowly getting higher up into the little area of his lower back with the little dip in it. The small back canal that his girlfriend’s hand presses against to draw him closer to her. Quick swiftly rolled a condom on and stood to face Bernie. He could probably smell all the alcohol on his breath. Quick’s fingers went to Bernie’s nipples, tweaking them a bit and creating the first moan of the night. Pleasure shot through his body and Quick knew he had struck his weak spot. Pleased, he pinched once again and Bernier’s knees threatened to collapse. “Bed…” Bernier requested. But Quick shook his head and removed the last piece of his backup’s clothing. A leg pressed against Bernier’s dick, rubbing gently. Quick was still toying with his nipple and used his other hand to card through Bernie’s hair coolly and at the same time he brought his lips to his neck, sucking and biting his pulse point.

Bernier turned to the wall and Quick immediately grabbed his firm cheeks, but declined the generous offer, cooing, “I want to see your face when I fuck you.” Quick was Bernier’s first, so the pain was a lot to handle as a single finger was inserted into him. He bit back a whimper and stared at the ceiling, avoiding Quick’s amused face. “It’s okay to be loud. I like it that way,” Quick whispered as he inserted another finger. Bernier responded by biting down hard on the other goalie’s shoulder and digging his fingernails into the other’s exposed back. A third and final finger entered his hole and the nervousness began to settle in.

“Ah fuck, Bernie, so tight,” Quick moaned as he taunted his cock at the base of Bernier’s hole. Slowly he pressed it in, making sure his backup felt every inch. A quiet pent up gasp was released into Quick’s shoulder. Then Quick began to fuck Bernier hard and fast, causing him to bounce and ride up and down the once comforting wall, gasping and moaning with great control, wincing every now and then. Every sensation was so strong. Quick’s hands on his ass for support as he pumped into him. His own hard breathing and his sweaty palms against the other goalie’s back. His hard dick sliding between him and Quick and the alcohol magnifying every touch and every sound. It was so much to take in at once. “You’re so good, so good, Bernie,” Quick complimented letting out a hiss of ecstasy. He shifted his position slightly dipping the bottom’s hips, hitting the perfect spot. Startled by the feeling, a loud moan left the goalie’s mouth, absolutely delighted. Quickie smiled and leaned in for a deep strong kiss, sticking his tongue against the roof of the other’s mouth and continued to roll his hips searching for that certain spot again.

“Ah! Fuck! Je Viens!” Bernier yelled as Quick found that spot again, coming abruptly and suddenly all over his stomach. Moments later Quick returned the favor, moaning and gasping into Bernier’ mouth all the while. Immediately, Quick exited to the bathroom to clean himself up while Bernier sat, empty against the wall, regretting his poor decisions and thinking of his girlfriend back in L.A. probably asleep by now in their bed. He loved this girl and wanted to ask her to marry him, but he just screwed things up by becoming an easy hookup for his teammate. He pressed his palms into his forehead. Quick came out of the bathroom and stared at his pitiful teammate on the ground. “Bed?” He asked hopefully. Bernier just looked at him with hurtful eyes and pulled himself into his own bed.

He barely flinched when Quick settled in behind him, kissing his neck and telling him how good he was and how well he did.

 


	4. Drugs and Alcohol

James is happy after their 4-3 win against Montreal. It feels so good to see the smiling faces of his teammates and hear their “Nice game, Reims”. On the plane ride to Philly, he gives himself time to clear his head and relax, staring out the window at the dark star-dotted sky. That is until Bernier decides to sit next to him. At first the other goalie is quiet as he takes his seat next to James, sitting calmly, fiddling with his jacket zipper, not looking up. James looks around at the vast array of empty seats available and presses his lips into a firm line of disapproval. His eyes go right back to the goalie beside him. Reims takes notice when Bernier is becoming a little uncomfortable with his staring and he shifts in his seat trying to avoid James’ stare.

The plane takes off smoothly and Reims feels his ears beginning to pop. He winces a little at the sharp pains but ignores it for the most part. That’s when the turbulence starts up. Back and forth the plane is rattled, stirring up James more and more with each wave. Bernier takes no notice and continues to sit there awkwardly messing with his jacket pocket. The popping gets worse and he is pretty sure he is making some kind of wimpy noise as a result, but he can’t tell because he can’t _hear_ anything. Bernier looks over for the first time of the night, fascinated.

Now it’s James looking down, avoiding eye contact. He can see Bernier out of the corner of his eye just _watching him,_ no longer messing with his suddenly boring pocket _._ Abruptly, Bernier pulls himself up out of his chair, despite the seatbelt sign is still on, and mumbles something about getting a drink. James smiles a tad, just a small turn up at the corners of his mouth. He presses his forehead against the cool window and stares at his reflection for a while, looking at his own eyes and then shutting them just to open them and be faced with his glaring eyes once again.

He feels the seat next to him shift a little bit and a leg touching his ever so slightly. _He’s back_ he thinks, opening his eyes, to catch the reflection of the other goalie in the window. Bernier lowers the tray table, laying out several tiny bottles of the airplane-provided alcohol and two Styrofoam cups.

“I don’t drink…” James says shakily as Jonathan pours from the tiny bottles into the cups.

“Me neither,” Bernier grins offering the cup to James.

Another wave of ear popping commences. James just pinches his ears, trying to get Bernier to understand that alcohol is just empty calories. Bernier nudges at him with his leg, waving the cup around a bit with enthusiasm.

“Just a sip,” his smile broadens as he puts the cup onto James’ now open tray table.

James glowers down at the liquid. Bernier just rolls his eyes and downs his own cup in two gulps.

“Don’t just stare at it,” he gives James a thoughtful thump on the back, knocking his table.

Hesitantly he takes the cup and draws it to his mouth. The smell is so strong, so pungent; reminding him of the last time he had alcohol. It was with his girlfriend, April. They went out to this club of some sort that she had found and they were sitting at the bar. The music was so loud and everything was so dark, he could barely see her pretty face. April was enthusiastic about the whole thing; she loved all the noise and the dancing. James wasn’t very thrilled himself, but he went because April liked it. After spending about an hour yelling over the music to communicate, she began to get bored and excused herself to the ladies’ room. James sat there patiently with his half empty glass of beer. Slowly, he began to drain the glass, awaiting his girlfriend’s return. He watched the T.V. playing sports replays, mostly baseball, wondering if his sense of time was off. There were no clocks in the whole place so he couldn’t really remember how long she had been gone. He began to eye her pretty much full glass of beer enviously. Inching his hand toward it, he grabbed it and downed that one too. A couple songs had been played all the way through and she still wasn’t back. James got up from the table, paying for both of their drinks, making his way dysfunctionally through the darkness, stumbling over his own feet. Soon after he left the bar, he found April on the dance floor. Grinding against another guy. She was completely sober, James would know since he drank her practically full beer himself, and didn’t even notice him staring at first. When she finally caught him staring, she stopped, the guy still rutting against her. Through the haze, James caught the words she was trying to say to him over the loud music: “I think you should go.”

James tips the cup a bit, allowing the cool liquid to rush passed his lips, burning all the way down his throat. He makes a face at the bitter taste coughing a bit as he swallows.

“Atta boy, Reims!” Bernier beams.

He unzips his coat pocket once more, this time pulling out a small red and white box and opening it on one side. He pops out a little red pill from the container and offers this to James, who automatically declines.

“It’s just Sudafed, relax I’m not trying to drug you,” James is unconvinced and takes the box to read what he’s really being offered. After careful reading, he confirms that it is Sudafed and not ecstasy or roofies or some other ridiculous drug. “C’mon it’ll help with your ears,” Bernier manually opens up James’ hand, placing the little pill within it and then rolling it back up into a light fist again.

Suspiciously, James takes the pill, gagging as he is forced to take another sip of the harsh alcohol. When he pulls the cup from his mouth, Bernier is watching him, grinning, his dark eyes scrunching up like they always do. His hair is still messy from the hat he wore all game and is sticking up in several places. This kindness breaks something down in James. The hatred that he started with isn’t as strong for a moment. He doesn’t feel threatened at all, he feels… happy…

This doesn’t last because as soon as Jonathan opens his mouth to speak, James hates him again. “You had a solid game tonight,” Jonathan says, refilling his cup halfway, glancing up mid-sentence. “Thanks,” James mumbles, turning his head to the window. Bernier is still talking quietly when James falls asleep, his forehead pressed against the window and his ears slowly decompressing. He sleeps soundly through the rest of the flight.


	5. Bernier's Start

 

 

After their 3-1 victory over Philly, with Bernier in net, James opts not to go out and celebrate with his teammates at the bar down the street from their hotel. He pulls out the book he has been reading to pass the time until he’s tired. He settles down, but can’t concentrate on the words. Showering seems like a better idea. Tossing the book onto his bed, he pads to the shower, stripping off clothes in the process that he would clean up later.

The water is sensational, running down his skin. As he faces the showerhead, embracing the waterfall and dragging his fingers through his soaking hair, he mulls over how Bernier played tonight.  The way Bernier’s pad slides were always on the mark and how the crowd would get so loud just to get so quiet when the goalie made the save. The bench was a place that James rarely visited last year, since he was the permanent starter of course. They made him wear a Leaf’s hat the entire time that gave him the most atrocious hat hair and made his ears stick out like Dumbo the Elephant. The steam rises and clouds the mirror, leaving it foggy and opaque. Everything is so calm, just as James would want it to be.

About mid-shower a faint thumping can be heard from outside. He doesn’t hear it at first over the water raining down around him. His name rises above the shower pressure and the person beyond the door has his attention. “Reims!” he hears again. Bernier went out to the club with the team and James didn’t think he would be back so soon. Immediately, James turns off the water and grabs a towel, wrapping it around his waist and opening the bathroom door. The pounding stops only when James opens the door to their room.

Bernier stumbles in, pushing James out of the way, words slurred a bit, “Reims? The hell man? I called you like four times I forgot my key.”

“I couldn’t hear you I was in the shower,” James answers blandly.

“You don’t say?” Bernier retorts, his eyes landing on James, noticing his nudeness. His dark eyes soften, filled with want, watching James intently. A silence settles in the room and James leaves Bernier standing there in his drunken confusion as he reenters the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Swiftly, James puts on a pair of boxers and a worn out t-shirt and stares at himself in the mirror, observing the stubble growing on his face, the shape of his jaw, the water dripping from his damp hair. He attempts to dry his hair a little with a towel so he wont go to bed with dripping hair, but it doesn’t really do too much, so he brushes his teeth and exits the bathroom, turning off the light.

Jonathan is pacing back and forth in front of his bed with a hand combing through his hair. When he turns around, James notices that he changed his clothes as well and his cheeks are a soft rosy color.

It could have been the alcohol and it could have been James walking around half naked and soaking wet, but as soon as Jonathan sees James, he practically sprints to him and clings, needy and grasping his shirt, connecting their lips for a sloppy kiss. James is startled and draws back out of surprise, but Jonathan does not let go and goes onto his tippy toes to stay with him. Jonathan’s hand wanders to the back of James’ head, thrusting his fingers into his hair to bring him closer. James’ finds his hand drifting to Jonathan’s lower back, bringing their hips together. Jonathan bites down on James’ bottom lip, tugging on it and breaking the kiss, pressing their foreheads together with that squinty Bernier smile.

James can’t react. He hates Bernier. He hates him so much. But that kiss. That kiss was so full of _want_ so full of _need_. So James just stays, motionless, his hand resting on Jonathan’s lower back, staring into Jonathan’s dark eyes. He can feel Jonathan’s chest as it rises and falls against his own. “So good,” Bernier smiles breathlessly. James doesn’t smile back. He remembers his place and removes his hands, pushing Jonathan aside gently and striding to his bed. He can’t help the crushed look on Jonathan’s face as he declined him, as he just threw his attempt away.

He picks up his book from his bed where he left it and packs it into his duffel. Jonathan stands in the doorway, his eyes on him as he pulls back the covers and gets into bed, staring blankly at the ceiling in the dimly lit room, the only light coming from the city leaking in from the window.

Discombobulated, Jonathan trips, mainly over James’ clothing all over the floor, as he tries to find his way to his own bed. The alcohol was very apparent in his system when James finds himself watching Jonathan try to peel off his socks. First, he licks his fingers as though he is about to turn the page of a book, and he tries to pull the top of his socks off lamely with those two fingers. Several attempts later he is grunting and sweating and frustrated and James can’t do anything. When Jonathan realizes that his first plan of action is really fucking stupid, he goes to plan B, which involves Jonathan using his teeth to pull his socks off.

“For chrissake Bernier just leave the fucking socks on and go to bed!” James hisses, because he can’t sleep with the sound of constant failure ringing in his ears.

Bernier pulls the covers back and crawls under, his back to James, making no noise as he does so.

Just before James slips into a deep sleep, the only thing that’s on his mind is a scary realization: _Jonathan Bernier kisses better than April._


	6. Car Keys

 

James is one of the first to get to the rink the night the Leafs play the Sens. He’s ready. Carlyle gave him the nod this morning that he would be starting; giving James the confidence that he is the starting goalie for the Leafs and Bernier is just a backup. Going into the game, James is confident and poised. So confident and poised that he just brushes off the two goals that get passed him in the first period, and the other two that get passed him in the second. Midway through, Carlyle pulls Reimer and puts Bernier in.

Only when the trainer hands James the blue Leafs hat does he realize what he had done and how he had played. Every goal is replayed in his mind: the five hole goal, the post and in goal, the shove into the net goal, and the scramble goal that earned him a spot on the bench. James snatches the hat but refuses to put it on. He just stares at it. At the blue and white Leaf’s logo on the brim.

Bernier does great in net, earning him a shutout and the first start of the game when the Leafs win in a shootout on home ice. After Bernie makes his second shootout save of the night, the bench clears and everyone rushes to Bernier as Bernier rushes to them. James doesn’t join the huddle. He decides to skate awkwardly off to the side even during the salute.

The reporters are the worst though. James wants to go to his apartment. Back to his big empty bed and big empty couch with his big empty T.V and big empty books. James gives a couple of satisfying answers and notices the reporters slowly making their way to the next stall over… to Bernie’s locker.

He skips his shower, because he likes _his_ shower in his apartment better.  He likes his own soap and his own shampoo and his own water. But most of all, he likes how no one else is there, their criticizing eyes watching him, _judging him._ As he is walking out, a strong hand thumps against his back.

“Aye good try in net, Reims,” A grinning Bernier swings his arm around his shoulders and walks in step.

“Thanks,” James hisses into his jacket collar, walking faster now. He shoves his hands into his pockets, taking big strides.

“Slow down a bit Reims I don’t bite! Hey wait up!” James is practically light jogging away from Bernier, his hands in his pockets as he makes his way briskly to his car. The cool night air is cutting into his exposed cheeks and stinging his eyes sharply. Gotta love that brisk Toronto weather. Bernier is just strolling casually, requesting for James to stop being childish and that he just wants to talk, as though he has nowhere important to go because he probably doesn’t.

“Yes you do,” James growls when Bernier finally catches up to him.

“Yes I do what?” Bernier asks stupidly, like he already doesn’t fucking know.

“Yes you do bite,” James spits out, already annoyed and flaring mad from the game.

Bernier looks quite confused by this accusation, but James isn’t watching the other goalie’s face, because he’s at his car by now and his head is down, searching through his coat pockets for his keys.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean ‘I do bite’ it’s just a saying c’mon man be cool,” James is cussing now because his keys are not in his pockets. He must have left them in his stall. He doesn’t want to go all the way back into the rink. Doesn’t want to see the faces again.

Bernier gives James a light shove just to get his attention because James is too busy messing with his pockets again.

“You kissed me Goddammit, alright? Remember? You bit me, so just fuck off man,” James is pinching the bridge of his nose, squinting and wrinkling his face with frustration. Bernier becomes increasingly quite, just staring at his shoes blankly, but his head is still up so James can still see his forlorn expression clearly in the vague aurora of the parking lot lights. James thinks the conversation is over and begins to walk back toward the rink when he hears Bernier whisper quietly, so soft that James thinks it’s the sharp wind at first, but the wind couldn’t make him shiver like Bernier’s words do, “Did you like it?”

James pauses for a moment and stops walking. He should have kept going. He’s so fucking stupid. Why didn’t he keep walking he hates Bernier. Bernier is taking his starting position. Bernier is replacing him. Bernier is just a nuisance. Why did he stop just now for Bernier?

“ _Yes_ ,” James responds angrily, turning his head ever so slightly. He hates himself for this. He hates that Bernier gave him medicine for his ears. He hates that he enjoyed the kiss. And most of all he hates that Jonathan Bernier makes him forget about April.

Satisfied, Bernier walks over to James, tossing him his car keys, and leaves him standing there in his own frustration. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to _breath_. He just wants things to go back to the way they were last year when Gustavsson was his backup and James played practically every game. Bernier shouldn’t be here.

James shuffles to his car, his head down. The drive home is silent, as he doesn’t turn on the radio like he normally does. Silence is what he needs. Showering is silent, aside from the rhythmic drumming of the water. When James gets into bed at last, he keeps his phone close to him, as though waiting for it to buzz. Sometimes this happens on bad days, when James just misses April so much he charges his phone right next to his bed just in case she calls him in the middle of the night or texts him. She never does. But tonight, James isn’t wanting April. He’s wanting someone else. Someone with squinty dark eyes and a memorable bite. Someone who is going to replace him and ruin the rest of what he loves. James stares at his phone wanting, _needing_ that stupid name to show up and give him much needed relief. But Jonathan doesn’t text and Jonathan doesn’t call and James is left with the silence.


	7. Shutout

 

 

Quick is hot against his ear. His hands are strong on his hips. His body is hunched over his. Bernier presses his face into the sheets, letting out a string of unintelligible curses. This is the fourth or fifth time they’ve done this; where Quick pins him and pulls him into fucking. On road games Bernier is just so vulnerable. No one knows about it. No one knows about two nights ago when Quickie pulled him into a storeroom closet in St. Louis, kissing him firmly and sucking his neck hard enough to bruise. A bruise that he’d have to hide from his girlfriend. A lie he’d have to tell her about taking a puck to the throat during practice, because when else does Jonathan see shots? Not in a game that’s for sure.

Quickie is going faster now, as if he is forgetting that Bernier is the one he’s pounding into. When Jonathan hits that perfect spot, Bernier whimpers softly, controlling his cries and moans because Jonathan likes it loud. He likes it messy. He likes it to be surprising. He likes the little moans that Bernier forgets to conceal, the special ones when he’s so lost in the sex that he just can’t prevent them.

Quick is close now, Bernier can tell because his English is just complete and utter curses now and every other word is “fuck”. He shudders and comes, deep, deep within Bernier, who strokes himself through his own orgasm, moaning silently, eyes clenching shut. Quick is still hovering above him, his lips pressing chaste kisses up Bernier’s spine gently to the side of his cheek. Breath ghosting across the back of his neck, he speaks with a hushed voice, “ _you’re mine_.”

Jonathan sits up abruptly, sweating and gulping for air. He peers into the darkness, searching for Quick only to realize his bed is empty. He sees the hotel clock glowing 2:20 AM in red. The room is so quiet, so still. A lamp is turned on from the other side of the room. James is barely awake. His eyes are all scrunched up, probably from the light. He looks tired and irritated, as usual. Hair is all over the place.

“You okay?” James mumbles, flicking his eyes to Jonathan, who just nods absent-mindedly.

“Just a weird ass dream, you know how that goes,” James just glares at him.

“No, I don’t,” He responds, flipping off the light and rolling over to face the other wall.

 

When Jonathan wakes up, he finds James sitting on his own bed, reading silently, as though he has been awake for hours just sitting there reading. The sun is pouring in through the window, which is unusual because Jonathan shut the curtains last night so the light _wouldn’t_ blind him first thing in the morning.

“Good morning,” James says, only slightly pissy, a good sign, not looking up from his book.

“Morning,” Jonathan responds, reaching for the remote, and turning on the T.V. He sets the channel to his new favorite show, “Too Cute”, which is pretty much just a show about bunch of adorable little puppies. James glares from his side of the room, clearly still trying to read. Jonathan doesn’t care; he just sits back into the pillows, barely blinking when James leaves the room to go read in the lobby.

 

Jonathan gets his third straight start against Nashville that night. And he crushes it. The Leafs walk away with a sweet 4-0 victory. After the game, Jonathan can’t stop grinning. A shutout. Already. His teammates make their rounds, congratulating him and spewing compliments his way. Even Carlyle says great game. Jonathan is beaming and ecstatic. He makes the decision not to get blindly drunk tonight and to go to bed early. James is one of the first off the bus and makes his way straight to their room, while Bernie lingers in the lobby with the team for a little while, talking lightly and making jokes.

Jonathan is hesitant to leave the lobby when the guys begin to depart although he does reluctantly goes back to his room, which is eerily dark when he enters. A single lamp is switched on and the room is completely silent; like the calmness after a storm. Jonathan finds James facedown on his bed, breathing lightly, his back elevating and drooping rhythmically. He can picture how James came in, dropping his suit jacket, toeing off his shoes, loosening his tie, then flopping face first into the bed, defeated.

But James is not sleeping. As Jonathan approaches his own side of the room, James perks up, twisting to see Jonathan, who emits a small, “Hey.” That’s when Jonathan studies James face. It’s bright red and streaky as though he’d been crying, but his eyes weren’t watery and his nose wasn’t runny.

Jonathan saw James cry once when he stubbed his bare toe against his locker, splitting the nail all the way up; only then did he shed a single tear. His face grew bright red and his nose became damp. That’s how James Reimer cries.

This was something different. Something like he was screaming at the top of his lungs until he ran out of air. Or he became very angry and flung things about in a fiery dangerous rage, but nothing in the room was out of place.

James slowly pushes himself into a sitting position, keeping his eyes away from Jonathan. He acts composed for the most part as Jonathan keeps an eye on him while picking things from his duffel in the corner. After a good period of time of silence, James timidly speaks up.

“Um, nice shutout,” he says, his voice a little shaky.

Bernier turns his head to flash a grin.

“Uh and you did… really great,” he sounds pained when he says this, as though he’s forcing the words past his teeth, but immediately wants to shove them back into his mouth.

“Thanks man,” Bernier accepts the compliment graciously.

James finally meets Jonathan’s eyes, only for a short while before he darts them away again. Bernier unties his tie and begins to unbutton his dress shirt. That’s when James eyes him again. He watches Bernier undo yet another button before he gets up from his seat on the side of the bed, taking several slow cautious steps, making his way to the other goalie. They’re standing face to face. James eyes watching Jonathan’s. He lifts his hands deliberately, hanging limply at his sides, to assist Bernier in unbuttoning.

James is delaying, like he’s deciding what he is doing, whether he will stop or finish his work. He looks so unsure. Until soft lips lean in to meet Jonathan’s. It’s so tender, so appreciative. Sturdy hands bring Jonathan closer to him. This is actually happening. James Reimer is passionately kissing him, bringing him closer to him. Jonathan can’t hold it in. He is enjoying this so much. This is nothing like how Quick kissed him, all rough and messing with too much tongue. This is slow and delicate and all kinds of right.

Bernier brings a hand up to James’ stubbly cheek, cupping it, then letting it travel to tangle in his hair. Then Jonathan hears it. Very quiet at first, and then growing a little louder. James is _moaning_. What a beautiful sound it is. Jonathan wants more of it. He isn’t tentative when he moves a leg to rub against James’ crotch, who is taken by surprise by the delightful friction.

He throws his head back, subjecting his exposed neck. Bernier seizes the opportunity and sucks at his pulse point, suddenly feeling all the control he has in this situation. His hands drift down James’ back and he sticks his hands down the back of his pants, grabbing his ass through his boxers.

James’ erection is digging into his thigh and Bernier knows he can make James come just by touching him. But what would Jonathan get out of all this?

Jonathan tears himself away from James, who looks at him with hungry blown eyes. His face is even more flushed than it was before and he’s panting hard.

“Are we gonna do this?” James asks, licking his lips.

Jonathan inhales sharply before responding, “Fuck yes,” and unbuttoning his dress pants quickly and James does the same and turns off the lamplight. Jonathan positions himself on top of James, rolling his hips against James’ groin, causing a long whine to leave the other goalie’s throat. James tries to place his hands on Bernier’s hips to guide his movements, but Bernier pins them down above his head, showing who’s really in charge.

He rolls his hips painfully slowly, making sure James feels everything. James, who is writhing and squirming with intense discomfort, tries to brush a kiss to Bernier’s lips, who tracks this motion and dodges the attack. James is impatient and needy. He wants to kiss Bernier and touch him and _control_ everything at once.

Jonathan reaches a hand down to grasp James through his boxers. When James realizes what Jonathan is doing, he protests. Smugly, Jonathan does whatever he wants anyway and leans his forehead against James’, so close that James can almost kiss him, but not close enough. After stroking him a couple times, Jonathan grins, his face so close to James’ and as he is staring straight into his clear blue eyes, he whispers, “I’m gonna fuck you, Reims.” James’ eyes grow wide and his pupils expand. Jonathan pulls off again, only to take off his boxers. He sticks out his fingers for James to suck, who does so generously.

Jonathan can tell Reims has never done this before. He’s so tight. He moans uncontrollably with just one finger in him, gently pressing his spot. When a second finger enters his hole, James whimpers, fear in his eyes. Jonathan picks up on this and leans in, allowing James to kiss him passionately and securely. James pushes back on Jonathan’s fingers when he inserts a third finger and tries to fuck himself, but Jonathan steadies his hips immediately.

“Look at you, coming undone so nicely for me,” Bernier coos, his dick slowly sliding into James’ hole. Below him, James keeps his eyes trained on Bernier the whole time, just watching his face. As soon as Bernier is in all the way, he wastes no time with creating a fast rhythm, dropping his arms on either side of the bed next to James’ head, and creating loud moans and whimpers from the other goalie.

Reims’ dick is bouncing against his chest, leaking precum. He’s been so good this whole time, but Bernier wants him to wait a little longer. He lifts up James’ hips about an inch or two off the bed. Reims lets out a loud outcry, his eyes widening, and mouth hanging open. How beautiful he looks.

“Again, Bernie, _again_ ,” James sighs making little grunting noises deep in his throat. Bernier pushes in deep searching for his prostate. He’s close to coming as well, with every noise Reims makes going straight to his dick. He pumps hard three more times, the last one hitting home, pushing James over the edge and tightening around Bernier’s dick. Jonathan holds Reims’ hips fast as he moans through his own orgasm.

He uses the sheets to clean himself off, too exhausted to get up, then offers a clean corner to Reims. James is just staring at the ceiling, his eyes half open, breathing hard. The blank expression on his face is unnerving. He doesn’t accept the sheet offered to him, he just silently rolls off the bed, dragging himself to his own, pulling his boxers on in the process.

Jonathan sleeps alone that night.


	8. Lonely

The plane heading to Toronto leaves at noon the next day. Jonathan wakes up late. Naked and alone. The room’s a mess and James isn’t there and his stuff is already packed and gone. Jonathan doesn’t see him at breakfast either and he lingers a little in the lobby, pretending to read another magazine. He is just trying to see if Reims is going to come and make his tea. Every time they go to a hotel, James goes straight to the hot water and makes a too strong cup of Green Tea. Strong to the point of it tastes like poison. And he doesn’t even put any sugar or milk in it. But, James isn’t tempted to come from his hiding spot, and Jonathan doesn’t see him when they get on the bus to drive to the airport.

He finds James when they’re 10,000 feet in the air with his head down on his lowered tray table, groaning in pain. It’s his ears probably. Bernier doesn’t hesitate to sit down in the empty seat next to him. With the possibility that this could happen, Bernier packed the Sudafed in his pocket. Soundly, he pulls out the little box.

With this noise, James lifts his head, face red, eyes drowsy. Bernier smiles a little. He loves James’ sleepy look. James pulls a discombobulated hand through his messy hair, locks eyes on the medicine. Jonathan wordlessly hands James a little red pill, who takes it thankfully, swallowing it dry. He presses his face back onto the tray table, but doesn’t fall asleep, instead he watches Bernier with sad eyes. Jonathan brings his thumb up to rub against his cheek reassuringly. It could be his imagination, but he’s pretty sure James leans into his touch.

It’s interesting to watch James drift slowly into a slumber. He fights his flickering eyes and Jonathan’s delicate thumb, stroking through his stubble. His blue eyes disappear behind his lids, and his breathing slows, he’s giving in.

When the plane lands, Bernier rocks James awake. Jonathan’s drive to his apartment feels so long. With no one to talk to, he lives a pretty quiet life. Every since his relationship with his girlfriend ended when the Kings’ playoff run was cut short, he has lived pretty solitary.

He remembers how it happened exactly. When the Hawks beat the Kings, Quick was outraged. He got blindly drunk in Chicago and the next morning when they arrived in L.A., the extremely irritated and hungover goalie told Bernier’s girlfriend, Martine, everything. The fucking on trips. All the excessive consumption of alcohol. Everything that he thought would push Martine over the edge. She moved her stuff out immediately, despite his pleading and begging. She could never look at him and left without a word.

He still keeps a picture of her. One picture in the whole house. It sits, waiting for him to come home on his kitchen island, looking out at the city of Toronto below and the city lights. He eats breakfast near it every morning he’s home. He never deleted her number.

When Jonathan gets home, he turns on the T.V. just to hear some noise. He thinks about texting James just to make sure he got home safe and didn’t fall asleep at the wheel, but he thinks otherwise. He sifts through the fridge. Nothing good anyway. Maybe he should go to the grocery store. But he doesn’t feel like going out. Maybe he should rent a movie. But he always does that. He could read but he doesn’t like books either.

He opts to text Reims, because there’s no other option.

_How’re ur ears?_

He types out. It’s a great conversation starter, he thinks. James could reply by saying ‘good thanks for asking” or “bad but thanks for the meds” or a third option… “I really like what we did last night”. He doubts the last one because James couldn’t even sleep in the same _bed_ after they fucked. He disappeared off the face of the earth so he wouldn’t have to face Jonathan. Obviously he did something wrong. Or maybe it’s James. Maybe James is ashamed and embarrassed and afraid he did something wrong….

_James Reimer:_

_Fine._

Bernier thought he wouldn’t respond. Or if he did he would do a little better than “fine”. Why can’t James just participate? Jonathan is _trying_ to be his friend. Jonathan is _trying_ to help him out and James isn’t trying at all. He is so annoyed with James. Why should he even make the effort? So Jonathan doesn’t. He just leaves his phone on the kitchen counter to charge and goes into his bedroom to tangle up in the sheets and watch stupid T.V. He doesn’t _need_ to reply to James. He doesn’t _need_ to do anything. They’re competitors and James is upset that he’s second best. 


	9. Friends

Jonathan isn’t sensitive. Not even a little bit. At practice, a week later, the morning before their game against the Blackhawks, he’s acting like James, like nothing ever happened.

On the ice, he watches the other end, to see if the other goalie gets scored on, of course, because that’s whom he’s competing with. James is so concise though. His moments so raw, so perfect. He gets so into watching sometimes that when his teammates actually score, he feels no satisfaction, solely because at some point during Jonathan’s observations, he began rooting for James to make the save.

After practice the reporters flood in, prodding Jonathan for answers about James and being goalie rivals and fighting for net time. He just kind of brushes it off, smiles, gives them the generic we’re buds crap, we’re just trying to pull some wins together, we don’t hate each other. He catches James glaring at him through the crowd of reporters and as he turns and walks away, Jonathan just watches his firm butt as he leaves, thinking:  _I fucked that._

 

The Leafs lose to the Hawks that night, 1-3, but Bernier has a good game. He faces 40 shots anyway. So he has no reason to be upset. The reporters make their rounds briefly, and soon everyone is clear of the rink. The coaches have all gone home and his teammates have said their goodbyes and it’s just Bernier in the locker room, packing his gear into his bag for the trip back to Toronto.

As he’s zipping his bag up, he hears the patter of bare feet behind him. It’s James, always the last to shower, even when he doesn’t play, he sometimes showers. He probably knew Jonathan was here too, so he put on some boxers and an undershirt before he came in, to make it less uncomfortable.

“You’re here still?” Bernier asks, as if his question wasn’t just answered.

James nods, pulling a shirt from his locker cubby and putting it on. He doesn’t lift his eyes and focuses on his cuffs instead, as though they really need so much attention. Bernier is done packing, but he doesn’t want to leave, so he stalls. He doesn’t know why he does this. But, he doesn’t want to _leave_ yet. He rummages through his bag again just to make sure he doesn’t forget anything vital.

The silence is eating away at him. So he stands up straight and goes to look at James, who is buckling his belt. Jonathan never got why they need to look so presentable after their games, wearing dress clothes and nice shoes, if no one ever sees them.

“Look man, I don’t hate you,” Jonathan tries.

James seems so uninterested and doesn’t even spare a glance, he’s so engrossed in his stupid belt.

“A-And I think it would be healthy for the both of us if we are friends,” Jonathan gives a weak smile.

Icy blue eyes come up to glower menacingly at him, refusing to speak a word in response.

“It doesn’t matter who is playing it’s the team that matters,” Jonathan is trying everything to grasp the other goalie’s interest.

“Says the starter,” James hisses through gritted teeth.

“Nothing is settled,” Jonathan retorts, semi-defending James.

James turns his back on him, tossing clothing into his bag. He’s acting so childish. He hates Jonathan for no good reason. Most goalies and their backups have pretty tight relationships. This is just ridiculous.

“What the hell man. What did I even fucking do? I get that you want to play, but you had to expect that it wouldn’t be that way forever, you getting to start every game,” Jonathan speaks with angry words.

“It _could_ have been that way. Until you-” James begins, but is cut off by an aggravated Bernier, “Until I got _traded_? You think I _wanted_ to be traded? I had everything in L.A. and now I have nothing here! So why don’t you stop being such a dick and act like my teammate and not my backup looking for a quick hookup on the road.” Bernier lies a little about L.A., but James doesn’t notice. James is livid. His face darkens so fast, like Bernier had just hit the perfect nerve. He doesn’t know what will happen next. Silence settles in the room once again, letting the words sink in like Purell seeps into a wound.

The other goalie turns to zip up his bag and Jonathan knows he’s gone too far. He started the conversation to fix things, but he fucked things up more.

“No, wait, fuck, sorry man, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. Fuck,” James is ready to leave now, but he can’t find his keys again probably. He always forgets he puts them in the top cubby of his locker. Jonathan uses this spare time to close the space between him and Reims and continue to try and apologize.

James is cursing loudly, lifting his bag up and putting it back down again, sifting through all his pockets recklessly. Bernier doesn’t know what to do, so he reaches out to touch Reims, to calm him a little. His hand rests softly on James’ shoulder. Reims flinches a little, and wild eyes connect with his. Not a word is said as Bernier pulls Reims in for a slow perfect kiss, the kind Reims pressed to his lips that night after his shutout. Bernier’s hand is firm on the back of James’ neck, holding him there, but it’s not like Reims needs to be forced to kiss back, because he just melts into Jonathan’s touch. He moans and whimpers, like he _wants_ Bernier, despite his previous anger.

James breaks the kiss, breathing hard, and swearing. His eyes are soft, and Jonathan notices he’s noticeably hard through his dress pants.

Jonathan grabs the keys from atop the cubby and hands them to James.

“Let’s start with the friend part,” James says breathlessly and quickly, picking up his bag and exiting fast.

Jonathan stands there, smiling to himself. _It’s a start._


	10. You're Perfect

When they arrive at the hotel in Vancouver, James immediately goes to bed. He drags himself through the door, drops his stuff and just collapses. Bernie comes in twenty minutes later with a magazine in hand and a front desk mint in his mouth. His Leaf’s hat pulled down shading his eyes even though it’s too cloudy for a hat.

Jonathan starts talking instantaneously. At first quietly to himself, little reminders that he needs to get a water bottle from the front desk and he needs to pack another pair of socks next time, then a little louder for James.

“They have a bar downstairs, Reims,” James just tucks his face deeper into the pillows, making unintelligible noises.

“We should go after tomorrow night’s game,” Bernier is shuffling around the room in his socks, fiddling with things on the tables and making a hell of a lot of noise.

“There’s a Panera down the street…” Bernier is probably looking at his phone, searching for the nearest food places. He waits for a response. James gives none.

“Let’s get something to eat.” Bernier pesters. James lets out a frustrated huff of air. He wants to sleep. Bernier is so loud and so annoying. Why can’t he just shut up? The silence that follows is a little apprehensive. James hears feet, making their way over to him. The bed dips under his weight. He’s just sitting there. Making James _extremely_ uncomfortable. He can’t sleep with Bernier right there. He’s so close.

That’s when he feels Bernier’s single finger, delicately tracing down James’ spine through his dress shirt. When he reaches the bottom of his back, he begins again at the top with the lone finger, tracing his back muscles, producing shivers that run through his body. His heart is beating faster and a slow smile spreads across his face. This is nice. All that he can feel is Bernie’s finger drawing lines up and down his back.

The feeling only lasts a second, because just as James is beginning to relax, Bernier slaps an open-palmed hand across his ass. “Let’s go to Panera!” He grins as James rolls over onto his back, his cheek throbbing. He’s awake now for the most part anyway.

The air is cold in Vancouver. Very dry. Very unforgiving. Very stupid of them to _walk_ to Panera when they have a car. But Bernier doesn’t seem to mind at all. He talks as they make their way down the street, smiling even when James just walks with his head down.

James eats in silence as Jonathan talks. He doesn’t want to be here. He’s not even hungry. James uses his arm to hold his head up so he doesn’t doze off at the table. Bernier gets bored easily, so he takes out his phone and the table is silent. James is just sort of there physically, but not mentally.

He is so confused lately. When he’s alone he wants to be with Bernier and when he’s with Bernier he wants to punch himself in the face because he’s supposed to hate him. He wants to play so bad but then he’s benched. He has so much hope and confidence in practice, but when he plays in games he loses and lets in at least four goals. At night, when he is lying in bed staring at the ceiling, he no longer thinks of April. He hears Bernier’s voice against his ear. He feels his hands and his lips, reliving that night in Nashville.

James’ phone vibrates violently in his pocket, urging to be looked at. He wilts faintly as he shoves his hand into his pocket and reaches for his phone.

**_Jonathan Johnny Berns Bernie the best Bernier :) :) :) :_ **

 

**_ready to go?? ;)_ **

James glares from his phone. Jonathan just smiles.

“You could have just asked me. I was sitting right there,” James mumbles as they brave the cold outdoors.

“Yeah, but your reaction is better my way,” Jonathan wraps a scarf around his neck and tucks it into the opening in his coat.

“It was pointless,” James says back, just to continue the conversation.

“Hey, my hands are cold, can you hook me up,” Bernier says, staring at Reims’ unused gloves in his pocket.

“Um, sure,” James says, pulling the gloves from his coat. But Jonathan doesn’t take the gloves. Instead, he sticks his hand in James’ back pocket of his jeans to “keep warm”.

When they get back to the hotel, James flops back on his bed, but this time Jonathan decides he’s tired too and wants to join. He tucks himself in behind James, his hand wondering up to caress James’ cheek reassuringly, drifting through his stubble. Every now and then, he can feel Bernier’s lips pressing against the back of his neck softly, his own facial hair scratching him. They fall asleep like this.

The two wake up like this as well. When James rolls over to face Bernier, the other goalie looks so happy to see him. The heart inside James flutters as he presses a chaste kiss to Bernier’s forehead, observing as his eyes light up. Bernier smells like faint cologne and mints. He likes it. He likes Jonathan’s serious face as well as his grin. He likes his teeth and his lips and his ears and his jawline. During this brief moment, everything about Jonathan Bernier is perfect to James Reimer.

 

They lose. 0-4. The Canucks are all over them and James can’t stop them all. He feels like shit after the game. When he puts his head in his hands, he can feel Jonathan’s eyes on him. All he can think about are the four that got passed him. April’s voice appears in his head, “I think you should go.” As in “Reims you fucking suck. Give up. You’ll never be good enough.” He can feel his face getting hot. His ears are tingling. Why isn’t he playing well? What’s wrong with him? He deserves so much better than this. When Jonathan leans next to him to tell him to brush it off, James snaps back, “Mind your own damn business.”

He takes his time in the rink shower, pressing his forehead against the cool wall, sighing as the loss washes off with the water.

The nicely made hotel bed is so comforting. His eyes flutter closed. He hears the bathroom light flick off, and soon after, feels the presence of Bernier. Bernier presses himself against James’ back.

“You did so good tonight, Reims,” Bernier coos, pressing the palm of his hand into the front of James’ boxers. A moan escapes his lips.

“Your pad saves were beautiful,” Jonathan dips his hand into his boxers now, stroking him consistently, his head watching over James’ shoulder, nipping at his ear. James is gasping and moaning and breathing hard, he can feel Jonathan’s own erection into the back of his leg.

“I love watching you play Reims, more than I like playing myself,” a smile can be felt on the back of his neck as Bernier says this. Bernier uses his other hand to jerk himself off, using James’ moans as motivation.

“So seamless,” he whispers breathily. James is close. He can feel it pooling in the pit of his stomach, he’s aching.

“You’re perfect,” Bernier murmurs, and James comes with a loud gasp, with Bernier stroking himself through his own orgasm.

Tonight, James doesn’t flee the bed or kick Bernie out of his own. He embraces him. He wants to get used to him. The feel of his hands and his touch on his skin, his sounds his little ticks and what pushes him forward. He wants to know his past and his little quirks. He wants to get to know Jonathan Bernier.

 


	11. Rain

Today is an off day and James decides to take a trip to the grocery store. In the car, he cranks up the radio to twenty and rolls down the front windows. He’s happy. Yesterday, the Leafs beat the Sabres 4-2, snapping their losing streak, with none other than James between the pipes. He smiles to himself as he turns into his quaint neighborhood Safeway. There are only a few other cars parked, it seems everyone else is busy today.

The sky is dark with clouds on this serene Sunday in November. They loom lazily, fat and silky, low in the sky, anticipating rain. He grabs one of those little black hand baskets and strolls to the alcohol aisle. He’s not a drinker, but the wine looks enticing for the first time. He runs his fingers along the long-necked bottles and chooses one. He knows nothing about wine, but how hard can it be? They’re all essentially just old grape juice. He decides that he wants fish for dinner and steamed vegetables, and makes his way through the store idly, picking up the ingredients.

On the drive home, the skies open up, squeezing out little droplets of rain, sending them down splattering against James’ windshield.

In his apartment, James prepares the fish to be put in the oven and steams the vegetables on a big pot on the stove. He plays music from his Iphone and just enjoys himself. James isn’t a terrible cook. He knows how to make a simple meal without setting the place on fire or destroying the food itself. The fish actually tastes pretty descent and the vegetables are only a tad understeamed, but he’s okay with that because it adds an extra crunch.

Later in the evening, James settles down with his book in his chair. The rain is drumming hard against the window and the wind is beginning to pick up. Nothing could be done to bother him. He played well in his last game and _won._ He had the whole day to himself to just chill and focus on no one else. He is getting the opportunity to settle down and _read,_ a privilege that he hadn’t had for a couple weeks because of all the back-to-back games and trips and practices.

A loud banging penetrates his quiet time and James originally thinks to just ignore it and continue reading. It’s probably his neighbor or a UPS guy or something. The banging gets louder and he can hear his neighbor shouting at whoever is at the front door to keep it down. Now James actually has to get up and deal with the situation. He purses his lips as he opens the door to a sopping wet Jonathan Bernier, holding himself up using the doorframe. He looks petrified. His shirt and jacket sticking to him, his jeans soaked through as well.

Jonathan wordlessly enters, shutting the door behind him and hugging James. Does he realize he is wearing wet clothing? They just stand there, Bernier quietly breathing into James’ shoulder and James just standing there, stunned. How did he find his apartment? He can smell the alcohol on Jonathan’s breath. How did he navigate while intoxicated?

They go to the couch and Jonathan tells all, his words slurred a little. Jonathan woke up this morning late. He went for a run and came home when it had begun to rain. He couldn’t take the silence in his house and he began to his miss his girlfriend, Martine. After watching T.V for a little while, he drove to the liquor store in the downpour, bought a case of beers, and drove home. The images of Martine didn’t go away even after the fourth beverage. He became frantic and upset and mentioned something about Jonathan Quick, the Kings’ goalie, but James didn’t really take notice to it. Jonathan texted Kadri for James’ address and ran to his house. _In the rain_.

Jonathan swipes a hand through his damp hair, looking around at James’ apartment. It’s pretty plain. A huge navy blue rug that covers the floor of the living room, a big flat screen T.V. that is mounted on the wall, the couch that they’re sitting on and an armchair in the corner next to a window, where the rain falls. There’s also the kitchen out in the open with a marble countertop and hardwood floors, big dark wooden cabinets and a high marble table with stools. There are a couple other closed doors that Jonathan can’t see into.

James studies Jonathan all while he’s looking around. His eyes are red rimmed and his lips are seriously chapped. He’s fidgety and shivering slightly. James offered if he wanted to borrow some clothes, but Bernier declined stubbornly.

“C’mere James,” Jonathan turns his head suddenly, requesting James to sit closer to him on the couch. He pats the spot next to him, grinning weakly. He obeys and Jonathan wraps an arm around him, letting James tuck his head under his chin. Slow circles Jonathan rubs into James’ arm. His breathing is slow and James’ ear is so close to his heart. James is slowly getting damp and Jonathan is slowly getting dry.

“I missed you,” Jonathan whispers into James’ hair.

James doesn’t respond. He just relaxes into Jonathan’s grip. Jonathan raises his head a little and James looks up and follows the other goalie’s gaze to the bottle of wine. He smiles and goes to open the bottle. They don’t use glasses. They just sit there on the couch, taking alternate sips. It tastes awful. It’s so bitter, almost sour, and it feels like a fire going down his throat. He drinks it because Bernie is and he doesn’t want him to feel like he’s the only one. There’s plenty of space between them on the couch, their thighs barely touching. Their legs are splayed out before them as they pass the bottle between them.

Jonathan begins to talk. “Quick seemed like a cool guy at first, y’know? Because I, uh, didn’t really know him.” Bernie’s words are becoming more strung together and loose. “We hung out after games a couple of times and we became like road roomies. Like us y’know?” Jonathan isn’t looking at him; his eyes are glazed over, staring at the rug. His entire body is slack, the wine bottle held loosely in his hands. James nods anyway. Taking a swig from the bottle, he then continues, “He fucked me, James.”

James doesn’t know how to respond. He doesn’t really know where he’s going with this.

“After games, we would go back to the hotel ‘n I’d get wasted. Like shitfaced drunk. ‘nd when I got to the room, he’d be waitin’ for me. Sometimes, when Martine went away for work, Quick came over… We even did it in his car once.” Jonathan adjusts his position on the couch to a more upright one and hands the bottle to James, throwing his head back, staring at the ceiling. The rain is the only thing filling the silence.

Jonathan shakes his head, a faint smile forming on his face. “And y’know what he said to me Reims, y’know what he said?” James stares at him intently. Jonathan swallows hard, “He said I give the best blowjobs he’s ever had.” Only now does Bernier look at James, his face serious. “He told Martine. He told ‘er everything. ‘N she left me.”

Jonathan sighs, accepting the bottle from James’ hand and taking a big gulp. James, becoming increasingly dizzy, rests his spinning head on Bernier’s shoulder and the room stops swirling. They don’t talk for a while and the quiet rain slowly puts the two to sleep.

 


	12. Sudafed

Jonathan wakes up because the sunlight is flooding through the window. He is completely positive he shut his fucking blinds last night. He blinks past the brightness and looks around. Where is he…? Pain comes flooding into his senses suddenly. A headache forms instantly and he feels queasy and rank. His hangover symptoms never fail to surprise him the morning after. Glancing at the kitchen clock, he reads 1:33. Painfully, he gets up and meanders around, touching almost everything in the room to get a feel for where he is. He makes his way to the kitchen and pulls open one of the large dark wooden cabinets, revealing about six different boxes of tea. James. He is in James’ apartment.

Jonathan walks around a little more until he finds James fixing his bowtie in the mirror, already showered and dressed very sharply for tonight’s game against the Islanders. Grinning, Jonathan slaps Reims on the ass hard, “Wow look at you, you dirty motherfucker.” James smiles a little reaching for his toothbrush. The pain is pulsating through his head and spreading to behind his eyes. James watches him through the mirror. “Reims, do you have any Tylenol or Advil or something. I feel like shit.”

He shakes his head disapprovingly, his mouth forming a line, and finishes off in the bathroom, walking purposefully to Jonathan’s coat, lying depleted on the floor near the door with his shoes. He reaches into a pocket, probing for something, and then checks the other pocket. Jonathan’s soggy box of Sudafed is pulled out. The exact box that Jonathan pulls out on every plane ride with James. Reims takes out a little red pill, and when Jonathan opens his hand to accept it, James instead pops the pill into his own mouth.

Suddenly, James is kissing Jonathan, pressing their lips together and pushing the little pill into his mouth. Bernier can feel the blush spreading across his cheeks and his ears getting hot. James holds Jonathan’s head there, even after he swallows the pill, grinning against his lips. When James draws back, to go into the kitchen, Bernier can’t stop grinning. His heartbeat is fast, and he doesn’t feel so sick anymore, even though the Sudafed hasn’t kicked in yet.

 

James offered Bernier a ride to his apartment, and to drive him to the game afterward, which he thought was awfully nice of him, considering Reims hated him just a couple weeks ago.

No music is played in the car, they just drive in silence, that is, until Jonathan grows bored and wants to know what Reims listens to. 

“What are you doing? Wait, no,” James tries to bat his hand away, but the other goalie is just to fast for him, and presses the button. Carrie Underwood comes blaring out of the speakers, the volume at twenty at least. James shuts the radio off, annoyed, barely affected by the deafening noise.

“Hey I like that song,” Bernier goes to turn the song back on.

“You don’t even know the song,” James retorts, shutting it back off before the chorus can start up.

_“I do know this song,”_ Bernier mumbles under his breath, glaring out the window, his eyes squinting.

Silence consumes the car. Bernier begins to fiddle with things: the seat heater, the lock button, rolling and unrolling the windows, pressing the hazard button, all while grinning at James’ annoyed reactions. After rolling the window down for the third time, James grips the wheel and growls, “Just fucking _stop,_ Bernier.”

Like a child who doesn’t get his way, Bernier, instead of whining and persisting, belts out the words to the Carrie Underwood song Reims kept shutting off.

“And I DUG my key INTO the side of his PRETTY LITTLE SOUPED UP FOUR-WHEEL DRIVE! Carved my name into his LEATHER SEEEAAATTTSSS!”

James doesn’t bat his hand away the next time Bernier reaches to turn on the radio.

The Sudafed kicks in so nicely, erasing virtually all his symptoms and in the shower, Bernier begins to remember what happened last night. He remembers the rain, _everywhere_ as he sprinted through the streets dizzily, breathing heavily. He remembers James’ heat sinking into him as he hugged him and the calmness setting in. He can smell James’ shampoo as he held him close, pressing a chaste kiss into his hair. He remembers telling James about Quick and watching as James fell asleep on him. He strung careful fingers through Reims’ hair, just observing him close-up. He ran his fingers along his jawline and noticed how his ears stuck out at the perfect angle. How his mouth sort of twitched sometimes in his sleep and how loud he breathed through his nose.

Jonathan loves this from James. He loves how James’ little things, things James probably scowls at and disapproves of and checks off as flaws makes Jonathan happy and smile and scrunch up his eyes at because it’s James. It’s how James can forget his keys in the locker room and not forget that the Caps always put Ovechkin on the point for powerplays. It’s how James checks for green tea at every hotel but won’t check for the time they have to leave for the airport. It’s how he does things.


	13. The Apartment

Jonathan invited James into his apartment. He said that he was going to be a while and that he needed to shower. Everything he said seems to bounce off James, who said he _really_ was fine staying in the car.

James rests his head against the back of his chair, taking slow breaths, rubbing his hands up and down his legs. Bernier left to change about thirty minutes ago. He should be out by now. They need to get to the rink soon. James doesn’t like to be late. Ever. He’s probably just wasting his time in the shower, jamming out to the music, or eating a huge meal or something ridiculous. He _would_ make James wait on him.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think about it. Tries not to think about Jonathan. So he doesn’t. Instead he thinks about Ryan Miller. About how they played the Sabres in a preseason game. A game that Jonathan got the start for and seized the opportunity to make his mark. James was at home on his couch, watching the game on his T.V. when Bernier went after Miller, initiating an exhilarating goalie fight, the kind that fans don’t forget. The kind that fans point and ask “Hey who’s the new guy?” The kind of fight that would help get Bernier recognized as a serious goaltender. James remembered angrily sitting alone by himself and shutting off the T.V. after the fight ended so he wouldn’t have to suffer through all the replays.

James’ anger and frustration returns. It never really left. When he fell asleep next to Bernier and kissed him this morning, the hatred was always there, lurking in the back of his mind, waiting to resurface. His eyes flip open and he slams his hands against the steering wheel.

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK YOU! FUCK!” He yells. He can feel his face growing hot. “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?!” He can’t stop thinking about the first time he saw Bernier walk into the rink, Leafs’ bag slung over his shoulder, grinning at everyone who passed by. He wore a Leafs’ hat with the rim pulled low over his eyes darkly. When Bernier met James, he shook his hand, grinning dumbly like he always does, talking about how great it will be to work side by side with him. Now that James looks back on this conversation, Bernier doesn’t work side by side with James, he works in front of him, starting all _his_ games.

“WHY CAN’T I HATE YOU?” James roars, pressing his head to the steering wheel. He thinks back to that first night when Jonathan kissed him in Philly. How needy he was and how fervent it was. How much control James had, drawing away and leaving Bernier with his own feelings to deal with. Now James is stuck between loving Bernier, who is taking his job, and hating him, who he needs. Why is James still here? Why can’t he drive away?

James gets out of the car quickly, slamming the car door in frustration and jogging to the apartment lobby. _“What the fuck am I doing?”_ he whispers to himself as he presses floor ten on the elevator. Bernier told him his room number was 1024 on the tenth floor. Why the hell would he want a room on the tenth floor?

The elevator dings and James sprints down the hallway frantically, glancing at the numbers on the wall. His room is open when Reims gets there, and he pushes himself through the doorway. Now James can see why Jonathan would want a room on the tenth floor. _The view._ The windows are floor to ceiling, revealing the world below. Awestricken, James looks around at the apartment.

Bernier sure has good taste in décor. Two black leather couches face a massive flatscreen mounted on the wall. A nice white rug beneath the couches, hardwood floors all around. The kitchen is out in the open, just like James’, with little hanging ceiling lights that could be dimmed. James likes that and plays with the dimming switch on the wall. In the middle of the kitchen, there is a granite island. Off to the side there is a dark wooden dining table with two chairs at it. Everything is so put together.

James wanders into Bernier’s bedroom, finding the other goalie slumped against the side of the bed, his face and arms pressed into the mattress. His hair is dripping wet and he’s only half dressed. He’s _asleep._ James grabs the nearest item, which just happens to be a tissue box on the table next to him, and chucks it at him.

“Wake up,” James spits out irately. Bernier moans tiredly and lifts his head from his arms, his eyes smiling at James, glad to see him. James refuses to smile; he crosses his arms, “Let’s go.”

Of course Bernier takes ten minutes to pick out a tie and suit coat that match and can’t find his hat. James sits at the little dining table, staring out the massive windows. When Bernier resurfaces, he’s grinning like an idiot, as though he is so happy that James is there. James could care less.

They drive with the radio on, so James doesn’t have to hear Jonathan’s voice the entire ride, and actually make it to the rink on time. As they pull into the parking lot, Bernier opens the glove compartment and sifts through it eagerly. “What are you doing? Stop,” Jonathan uses his body to block Reimer, who tries to grab an old photograph Bernier pulls from the compartment.

It’s of a beautiful brown-haired girl in a white dress and James. James tries to grab the picture through Jonathan’s arms, but he tugs it out of reach. “Who’s that?” Jonathan asks, observing her closely.

_“Nobody,”_ James hisses, his eyes narrowing.

“Obviously she’s somebody if you have her _picture_ in your glove box,” Jonathan says back, teasing.

Silence from James end of the conversation. He’s glaring, once again. Annoyed with today. Annoyed with himself. Annoyed with Bernier.

“It’s my April, my ex-girlfriend,” he mumbles, eyes down.

Jonathan cups James’ cheek, forcing the other goalie to look at him. “Hey, look at me,” Bernier coos when James averts his eyes, “It’s okay, Reims. Everyone has their Kryptonite.” His voice is a whisper when Bernier kisses his forehead. And James lets him.

 

After their 5-2 win against the Islanders, James drives Bernier back to his own apartment. Bernier wont stop talking. He talks about how he got hit in the face with a stick in the second period and it didn’t get called and how the reporters stood extra close to him today. James just focuses on driving. Bernier doesn’t know how lucky he is. James would love to play as much as Bernier. He would gladly suffer through close-standing reporters and getting hit in the face with sticks if it meant he could play.

When James stops in front of Bernier’s apartment, Jonathan invites him inside for the second time that day. James’ lips form a tight line and he tells Bernier no. When Bernier kisses him goodnight, he doesn’t kiss back. Bernier notices. He had begun to get out of the car but decided to deal with the issue now. He shuts the door and studies James, who glares at Bernier with narrowed eyes.

“Reims.” Jonathan says, still observing him, “What’s wrong.” His voice is completely calm and even.

James refuses to answer or even look at him. He stares at the steering wheel instead. Bernier places a hand on James’ leg and he flinches at the contact. Bernier rubs his thumb against the side of his leg in a slow rhythm.

“Talk to me,” he whispers. James wants to so badly. He wants to tell him everything and hug Bernier and kiss him and go up to his apartment and lie on the big leather couches and look out at the lighted city below. But he doesn’t. He’s still angry. He wants to play. He hates sitting on the bench. He hates being lonely. He hates the feeling of want. He hates his empty bed and his empty apartment.

James doesn’t respond.

“Is everything alright?” Bernier asks. He can feel the other goalie’s eyes on him, but he still doesn’t look over.

“Just _leave_ ,” James huffs.

Bernier doesn’t. He stays planted into the seat, but he removes his hand. James is a little upset at the loss of contact, but he’ll get over it.

“Not until you fucking tell me what the hell your mood swings are all about,” Bernier retorts. He is obviously finished with being gentle.

_“Get out of the car Bernier,”_ James grips the wheel tighter now.

“I said not until you talk,” The stubbornness in his voice is quite apparent.

“If it’s about April-” he begins again.

“Don’t mention her name again,” James interrupts, head whipping to face Bernier. He can barely see the other goalie in the dark car; the only light coming from the apartment lobby and a nearby streetlamp.

“I can do whatever I damn please,” the conversation is plummeting fast.

“Just leave it be, Bernier,” James speaks through clenched teeth.

“You will tell me what the hell is going on right now or I’m not leaving,” Bernier says angrily.

“Then we’re in for a long night,” James responds.

Bernier waits for James to keep talking and when he doesn’t, silence consumes the car. Bernier keeps his eyes on Reims. Reims faces his head forward.

James is strong willed, but he only lasts five minutes of silence and glaring from Bernier.

“I want to play,” he whispers into the darkness, “I want to play so bad, Bernie. It hurts.” Jonathan’s eyes soften a little bit, and his shoulders relax a little.

“I don’t like sitting on the bench,” is all he says after that.

When Bernier leans to kiss him goodnight once more, James presses back, moaning a little into the kiss. Bernier grins against his mouth, threading his fingers through his hair gently. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Reims,” he whispers against his lips, exiting Reimer’s car and walking into his building.

 


	14. Thanksgiving

James lies on the couch in front of the T.V., watching the Macy’s Day Parade. Today is Thanksgiving and James spends it being thankful for off days. Every year on Thanksgiving, April would make a huge batch of stuffing, because that’s mostly all James ate on Thanksgiving. He doesn’t really like turkey or mashed potatoes or even pumpkin pie. But stuffing is just the perfect food. It has bread and more bread and vegetables and more bread, which is good enough for him.

This year, April isn’t here to make stuffing. James doesn’t know where she is or whom she’s making the stuffing for.

So this year, James must make his own stuffing. Yesterday, before their game against the Penguins, James walked to the store. Which was a fucking stupid idea because it was _snowing_ and twenty degrees outside.

He bought a bottle of that sparkling apple cider stuff because he now hates the taste of wine and alcoholic beverages of any kind, so what else is he gonna drink, and a box of stuffing mix, which just looked like a big thing of croutons from what the picture on the front showed. He also got a new shower curtain because after their game against the Caps last week, James decided to shower at home because he couldn’t take the Bernier atmosphere and all his teammates praising the other goalie, and he fucking slipped while trying to pick up his shampoo bottle in the shower and caught himself by grabbing the shower curtain and dragging it down with him.

At the checkout counter, the lady looked at him and asked, “Hey aren’t you James Reimer?” and James was like, “Who’s that?” and she responded by saying, “Oh he’s the backup goalie for the Toronto Leafs.” James paid with cash. As she opened the cash register to give him his change she added, “They have this new guy named Bernier, he’s really good. You should watch sometime.” James now hates his local grocery store.

James reads the instructions on the back of the stuffing box. It doesn’t seem _too_ hard. From what James can tell, all you have to do is add water. So that’s what he does. He heats water on the stove and just adds the little stuffing croutons.

About fifteen minutes into the cooking process, there is a knock on the door. James kind of figures it is Bernier since the both of them don’t have girlfriends to spend the holiday with and their families are a four-hour drive out of the way.

He is messing with his jeans’ pocket when James opens the door and shuts it immediately.

“Hey, wait,” Jonathan says just as the door shuts in his face. “The hell man?” Jonathan calls when James walks away from the door to check on his stuffing. “I brought cranberry sauce!” Jonathan shouts from behind the door.

“That doesn’t change anything,” James says back, stirring his stuffing with a wooden spoon. “

The neighbors are gonna get annoyed with all this yelling!” Jonathan raises his voice.

“My entire floor went to visit family for the holiday, be as loud as you want I don’t give a fuck,” James returns, lifting a spoonful of stuffing to his mouth to test it.

“Does that mean we can have loud sex after you open the door?” Jonathan asks.

James practically chokes on the stuffing.

“Who says I’m going to open the door,” James talks, his mouth full of the scalding, half uncooked bread.

Bernier’s side of the door grows quiet.

James sits at a stool, waiting for the stuffing to cook. The box says forty-five to sixty minutes, but James thinks he can cut it down to thirty because he’s James Reimer and he can do what he wants. He turns on the radio, Christmas music flooding from the speakers. Elvis Presley’s smooth voice fills his quiet apartment, singing about a blue Christmas. He can hear Bernier’s voice singing along from the hallway.

The stove beeps and James moves the stuffing to a cool burner, only then does he open the door for Bernier to enter. The other goalie is sitting with his back against the door when it’s opened. James peers over his shoulder at the contents in Bernier’s bag of food that he brought, shaking his head, “And you didn’t even bring cranberry sauce.”

Jonathan stands up to his full height and leans in to kiss James, but James backs away and goes over to his stuffing.

“What’s up your ass?” Jonathan jokes, taking off his shoes and dropping his bag, “Besides me in about two hours?” James doesn’t respond, he turns off the radio and takes spoonfulls of the delicious food at hand and serves them into a big bowl for himself. He also grabs the bottle of cider and pops it open.

When James sits down at the counter to eat, Bernier sits right next to him, placing a hand on his thigh. James doesn’t pay any attention to him; he just eats his food and keeps his head down. Bernier’s hand moves closer to his crotch in an effort to get some attention, with no result. Bernier sure does get a reaction though when he intercepts James’ shoveling into his mouth, to grab the spoon and eat the contents.

“The fuck is your problem man?” James asks, rather calmly, eyes darkening under his eyebrows.

“I wanted to try some,” Jonathan responds simply.

“Then you should have asked,” James grabs the spoon back, searching through the halfway eaten bowl with it for a good scoop.

Bernier gets up from his seat and brings his bag over, sifting through it. James observes Jonathan carefully. He is dressed up for this occasion with a sweater vest and a tie and dress shirt with jeans and dress shoes. He even wears his good silver watch. James looks down at his t-shirt and baggy shorts. Fuck fashion this is his house he can wear what he wants. Jonathan is a guest he should be dressing up. Bernier pulls out two really lame frozen Thanksgiving dinners. James glances over at it pitifully, his mouth full of his own meal, which is delicious. He also pulls out a bottle of champagne and a little box wrapped in Christmas paper.

Bernier goes to the microwave to put the dinners in.

“Hey man, you can put mine in the freezer, I’ve got my dinner right here,” James points to the bowl. Jonathan just shrugs. He then reaches for the bottle of champagne and puts it in the fridge.

“What are you doing?” James asks, watching him shut the fridge door.

“I’ve decided I’m not drinking tonight,” he says, turning back to the microwave.

James eyes the little box. What a fucking dork. Who gives gifts on Thanksgiving? James didn’t get Bernier anything. Dammit. Always has to fucking go the extra mile. James suddenly doesn’t really feel like eating any more even though he fasted all day to eat an entire box of stuffing.

Meanwhile, Bernier takes his meal out of the microwave, carrying the steaming plate next to James. He takes James’ now unoccupied spoon and uses it to eat his own meal. Smoothly, Bernier uses his elbow to nudge the box to Reimer. James doesn’t take it at first. Bernier nudges it nonchalantly again a little closer to the other goalie. James acts as though he isn’t paying attention, which he truly isn’t; he doesn’t care what’s in the stupid box anyway, and who uses _Christmas_ wrapping paper for Thanksgiving?

The box is out of reach of Bernier’s elbow he’s pushed it so far. “Reims, stop being a dick and open the present,” he says, eyes on his plate, mouth full of mashed potatoes.

“Oh, that’s for me? I didn’t even see it you were so stealthy,” James says sarcastically, picking up the present and shaking it, listening for a noise, “I wonder what it is!” he taps it on the table lightly. By tap it is more like a hit. Yeah that’s it, he began hitting the present against the table, trying to break it while Jonathan just ate his dinner sophisticatedly, watching him silently.

He tore off the wrapping nastily and opened the lid to the box. Inside was a small silver contraption with the words “key finder” on it and a little keychain that goes with it to be put on his key ring.

“They’re always in your cubby and when it’s not it’s in your right coat pocket and until you realize this, I got you that, so you stop losing your keys all the damn time,” Bernier uses the spoon to point to the little box. James likes it. He likes how it is such a Jonathan gift. He _would_ give him something he actually needs instead of a useless scarf or a gift card he would never use.

“What’d you get me?” Jonathan asks, taking a swig from the bottle of apple cider.

James is quiet. _Fuck._ Jonathan looks over at him expectantly.

“This,” James says, getting down from his stool and getting onto Jonathan’s lap, getting in between the goalie and his dinner, grinding down onto his crotch. “Mmmm, I think your present is better than mine,” Jonathan says as he takes another sip of cider and pushes his meal away. James puts his arms around Bernier’s shoulders, rolling his hips rhythmically. Jonathan is just watching James as he does this, positioning his hands on his ass.

James is inches away from Jonathan’s lips. He wants to kiss him so bad. He wants to bite his ear and lick into his mouth, but he controls himself. Jonathan is chewing on the inside of his cheek, keeping his composure, but James can tell how needy he is based on his hard dick digging into him.

“Couch,” Bernier mumbles, eyes serious.

“Mmmm but I like you right here,” James whispers, kissing up his jawline.

“I’m not gonna last,” Jonathan breaths out, flicking his eyes shut and tilting his head back. James presses kisses against his exposed neck, drawing moans from the other goalie.

Reimer dips his hand into Bernier’s boxers and then his own, pressing their dicks together and jerking them both off at the same time. Bernier is cussing loud in French moaning and gasping between expletives. James leans in close to Bernier’s ear whispering, “I’m thankful for you, Jonathan Bernier,” which is enough to spill Bernier over the edge, coming and moaning. Reimer waits a little longer to let lose, coming onto his shirt loudly.

They sit still and catch their breath for a few moments, leaning on each other, sweaty and sticky. James gets off Jonathan and they go to James’ bedroom, exhausted. Jonathan strips down to his undershirt and boxers and James changes his shirt and takes off his shorts, climbing into bed with Bernier. Bernie lets him rest his head on his chest. For the first time in months, James isn’t the only one in his bed. Tonight James doesn’t stare at the ceiling waiting to fall asleep. Bernier runs a thumb across James’ cheek. And just before James drifts off, he hears Bernier’s voice through the darkness, “I’m thankful for you too, James Reimer.”


	15. Over Time

The fans love Bernier. They have forgotten, pretty much, about Reimer. At least that’s what James tells himself. In order to not stir up any drama, James acts as though everything is peachy keen between Bernie and Reims. On the bench, he claps for the starter with his glove and blocker, even when he’s pulled from the game and Bernie is put in as a relief, a time in a game when he’s normally outraged. In front of reporters, James shows sympathy toward the other goalie. He never speaks badly about him and praises him thoroughly. They’re still roommates on the road, even though Carlyle never said anything passed the first road trip.

Rumors are beginning by now. Is James Reimer going to be traded since Bernier is the starter? Edmonton? Winnipeg? The team obviously plays better in front of Bernier. Why would they keep two good goalies? Trade Reimer, the Leafs will get some good from it.

James just holds his nose through the whole thing.

 

James watches as the time dwindles down in regulation from his spot on the bench. He bites his lip as the clock buzzes zero and the fans cheer. A 2-2 tie against the Stars going into overtime. Jonathan skates over from his net, his cheeks flushed pink. He lets out an exasperated breath, lifting his helmet up. James leans over the bench, close to the other goalie’s ear.

“Hey, Bernie, if you win this game, I’ll let you fuck me,” James whispers, grinning.

Jonathan’s eyes widen.

“Wherever you want, however you want, your choice bud, just win it,” James says, eyes locked. Jonathan looks at him with lust. They haven’t fucked since Nashville, almost two months, sure they’ve jerked each other off and kissed a lot, but James knows Jonathan longs to touch him that way again, he sees the way he looks at him in the locker room after showers. Bernier is turning bright red, so he pulls his mask down over his face to hide it.

“Water?” James offers a green water bottle to the clearly rattled goaltender. He takes it eagerly and squirts it all over his face.

The Leafs have lost five games straight and they _really_ need a win right now. James does his part to help his team out in any way he can, even if that means giving Bernier a little _motivation._

Jonathan skates back to his net looking a little awkward, a little _stiff_ , so to speak. The puck is dropped and overtime begins, James watching closely. The first minute of OT goes by quickly, no shots on net yet, both teams fighting for control. The Leafs get a couple shots on goal in the second minute of play, but none get passed. The third minute of play is like the first, and both teams lack shots. Bernier finally gets a shot and makes the save easily, followed by a rebound, which he steers into the corner. The clock is winding down to the final minute of play and the Leafs skate it into the Dallas zone.

It’s Trevor Smith from the point passed Lehtonen’s blocker. Leafs win. The losing streak is over. James makes it onto the ice for the home crowd salute, spotting Bernier through the mass of teammates, a big smile on his face, but it’s not because of the win.

The walk to the locker room is a blur as is getting undressed. Bernier is cheery in the locker room, talking to practically everyone, undressing so fast. He should be happy. He got the number one star of the game. James undresses slowly, taking off gear and setting it aside like an old rickety machine.

Bernier pulls a skate off, beaming toward James. James doesn’t want to look over. He didn’t think they’d _actually_ win.

“What’s sup?” Jonathan grins, loosening his goalie pants.

“Mm’nothin,” James responds, detaching his goalie pad from his skate, shrugging.

“Well, what are you thinking about?” Jonathan prods his finger into James’ side playfully.

“Mm’nothing,” he says again plainly.

“How can you be thinking about nothing? There’s a lot to think about right now,” Jonathan says smoothly, easing his dress shirt on, fixing his collar. Then he goes to slip on his dress pants, buckling his belt and slipping his shoes on. He’s not going to shower. 

“I’m just focusing on one thing at a time, Bernie. First thing is getting undressed,” James replies watching his hands carefully loosen his skate laces.

“Well you’re doing a pretty shitty job of that,” Jonathan nods toward James’ gear lying strewn across the floor. He’s probably realized that James is going at a dawdling pace. Jonathan pulls his Leaf’s hat on and winks, “Hurry up Reims,” and turns to talk to the reporters outside.

James is pulling his pants on when Jonathan returns. Bernier jogs over to James a water bottle in hand, “Here lemme help you with that,” he says, tucking the bottle under his arm, zipping up the front of his pants, buttoning the top button, then buckling his buckle. He’s extremely close to James right now, closer than he’s ever been in front of their teammates, but no one is really in the locker room right now. Just Phanuf and Lupul talking to the trainer in the corner. Bernier has lust in his eyes, so dark, he licks his lips briefly, drawing in a quick breath.

“Let’s go,” He says hurriedly, grabbing James’ suit and tossing it to him, pulling his own jacket on. Jonathan grabs James’ keys from the top cubby and shoves them in his own pocket.

“Car,” Bernier says, no longer speaking in full sentences. He is walking in massive strides, just sort of half waving at everyone shouting bye to him. James halfheartedly keeps up, his hands in his pockets as he strolls along, biting his lip. Jonathan pushes open the door to the exit forcefully, but someone shouts Bernier’s name, willing him to come back inside.

It’s coach Carlyle, who comes over to praise Bernier on the win.

“You had some nice stops there in the third,” he thumps Bernier on the shoulder.

Bernier is practically twitching in anticipation, he nods a thanks. His cheeks are pink and he’s sweating a little. “And you really kept us in there, don’t worry about that power play goal at the end, just shake it off,” Carlyle gives a warm smile. Bernier nods his head quickly, he looks like he’s either going to burst or punch coach in the face and book it just to get Reimer to the car.

“Are you two carpool buddies or something?” Carlyle looks to Reimer, who scoffs a little and says no his voice overlapping Jonathan’s eager voice blurting out a yes. The hallway is silent and Carlyle just sort of stares at the two of them like _goalies are so fucking weird_. “We’re um going out to that new steak place to celebrate James’ girlfriend’s pregnancy,” Jonathan says quickly adding, “And we sometimes carpool.” “Congratulations!” coach exclaims, now thumping James on the back, “I wish you and April the best! Well boys, have a good time, don’t drink too much, I’ll see you both tomorrow at practice.” As soon as Carlyle turns to leave, Jonathan turns on his heel and busts through the exit. It’s flurrying gently outside, regular December weather in Canada. Such a beautiful scene to witness, but James cannot take it all in because he can only think about April.

What if they had lasted this long? James was going to propose to her over the summer. He had it planned it out for months, since they had been dating for years, that it was time.

What if James had gotten April pregnant? He would have had to raise that child with her. He would still be with her. James can’t help but imagine what their baby would look like. Would he have his father’s messy blonde hair and his mother’s smile? Would she have her father’s crystal blue eyes and mother’s brown hair? It hurts him to think about these things as he shuffles to Jonathan’s car, chin tucked into the collar of his coat.

Bernier is sitting in the car, waiting for Reims when James finally gets to it. He gets inside and is pulled into a strong kiss by Bernier. By the time Bernier pulls back, James is breathing hard. Jonathan wastes no time and drives ten miles per hour over the speed limit the entire time, except when he got stuck behind this old guy. Jonathan pulls into his apartment lot and rushes through the doors.

In the elevator, James and Jonathan stand on opposite sides. Bernier keeps eyeing Reims, his hands shoved in his pockets for a good reason. As soon as Bernier unlocks the door to his apartment, he’s all over James, shoving him against the door, tearing his coat off him. James is two beats behind Bernie the whole time, trying to kick off his shoes and match the other goalie’s complex pace.

Jonathan removes his own shirt and presses himself against Reims, biting down hard on his collarbone, then replacing his teeth with with tongue and lips, sucking the same spot. Pleasure spreads from pain, and Reims can feel his dick getting hard fast. Jonathan puts his hands on the door on either side of James’ head, pressing their foreheads together. He goes for James’ ear, sucking and biting it, drawing long moans from him. James tangles his hands in the short hairs on the back of Bernier’s head, requesting more of _everything._ He objects when Jonathan draws back to unbutton James’ dress shirt buttons. Jonathan looks so undone already; he can’t even imagine how he looks.

Reims lets his shirt flutter to the floor, embracing Bernier’s calloused hands running along his chest and stomach. Bernier brings their hips together. The friction is unbelievable. Just a slight touch causes an outcry from James. Bernier is palming James’ ass through his dress pants. Reimer presses little kisses against Bernier’s jawline, trying to rub his hard-on against Jonathan’s thigh.

James could come just by being touched by Jonathan, but Jonathan has other plans. He pulls the other goalie away from the door, navigating his way into the bedroom. Bernier pulls off his pants and boxers, as does James, and they bring their bodies together again, but not until Jonathan fumbles for the bottle of lube and a condom in his bedside table. The bottle of lube is new, and it takes a couple of moments for Bernier to open the wrapping with his teeth. James decides to do his part and rolls the condom onto Jonathan’s dick. Surprised by the contact, Jonathan shutters a little, then pushes James back on the bed. Jonathan applies a generous amount of lube to his finger and presses it slowly into James’ entrance.

James grips the sheets, tilting his head back, moaning heinously. To muffle the noises a little, Bernier kisses up Reims’ body, meeting his lips, giving James something to preoccupy his mouth with. A second finger is pressed into James and he bites down hard on Jonathan’s bottom lip. “Fuck Reims,” he growls forcing their mouths together again, finger fucking him faster now.

James is out of breath. All he can see is Bernier’s eyes on him, pupils blown, lips kiss swollen. “So hot, Bernie,” he whispers. Jonathan enters a third finger and he doesn’t even blink. He’s ready.

Jonathan enters him slowly, his body crouched over the other goalie spread out before him. James tries to stay quiet. He drags his nails along Jonathan’s back. “You’re so good, Reims,” Bernier coos, pounding into him faster. James’ breath is caught in his chest. His cock _begs_ to be touched. It bounces against his stomach lightly in rhythm with Jonathan.

Jonathan leans in to kiss James’ neck and in doing so, hits the perfect spot. James gasps. “More, _more_ ,” needy and impatient. Jonathan thrusts deep this time and is rewarded with another long, desirable groan. Jonathan pumps only a couple more times before he comes deep inside James. He continues pumping slowly through his orgasm, whispering softly against his lips, “C’mon James. Come for me. You’re so beautiful.”

James comes hard, crying out Jonathan’s name loudly, gasping and stuttering, then collapsing against the pillows. James stares at Jonathan, watching his chest rise and fall, his hair dark with sweat. Jonathan tugs James close, wrapping strong arms around him, kissing his hair. “I want every night to be like this,” He whispers to James, and for the first time, James wants the same.


	16. You're Mine

Jonathan rolls onto his back, eyes wavering open, sunlight floods through the strip of open curtains, bringing in dull light to the pitch room. It’s James. He’s the one who always opens the fucking blinds. Jonathan sits up and looks around. There are clothes all over the room and the room is empty. The alarm clock reads 7:30, a time Bernier rarely wakes up at. The apartment is quiet.

Jonathan pulls on a pair of flannel bottoms, not bothering to put on a shirt, and picks up pieces of clothing off the floor. Most of it isn’t his, which means James is still in his apartment, he wouldn’t leave anything behind. Plus, Jonathan drove him here after the game last night, so he would have no way home, except to walk. Smart thinking on Jonathan’s part. He leaves the bedroom and finds Reims in the kitchen, wearing some of Jonathan’s clothing, opening a high cabinet.

He smiles. This is how it should be. James waking up in Jonathan’s apartment, wearing his clothes, opening his curtains. Bernier comes up behind the other goalie, wrapping his arms around him and trapping him between the corners of the counters where he stands reaching into the cabinet. He’s so close his crotch is pressed against Reims’ ass and he can smell the faint scent of gear on him from last night since neither of them showered.

“Mmm, good morning,” he coos into the other goalie’s ear, kissing his cheek.

Reims shifts to face him, no longer bothering with the cabinet, smiling, like he’s genuinely happy to see Jonathan. James’ hands rest on either side of the counter corners.

“What were you looking for, maybe I can help,” Jonathan asks, eyes locked, hands trailing to James’ backside.

James shakes his head a little, “You don’t have any tea.”

“I can change that,” Bernier moves in a little closer so he is whispering practically right against James lips, “If you came over more I’d have a reason to buy some.”

James grins bigger now, averting his eyes as though he is embarrassed, his ears turning pink at the edges.

Jonathan notices the shirt James is wearing. It’s one of his old Kings shirts that rest at the very bottom of his drawer that he hasn’t worn since last season. In fact, he had completely forgotten about them until now. Jonathan wanders his hands up James back to his shoulder blades and up to the collar of the shirt. His fingers search for a little tear from the time Quick was too rough pulling his shirt off and tore it ever so slightly. The little rip makes Jonathan want to cling to James tighter, to ask him to stay with him and not go home. Instead, he settles for a simpler request.

“Shower before practice?” Bernier asks hopefully.

James just nods and when Jonathan frees him, follows him to the bathroom.

 

Chills run down his spine when James is pressed against the cold shower wall. Jonathan presses his lips against James and James can’t help but moan into the other goalie’s mouth and run his fingers through Bernier’s damp hair. It had started out with James washing Jonathan’s body and when Bernier returned the favor, he ended up forgetting his restraint. He keeps his eyes open, watching Bernie the whole time, lost in the moment. James bites Bernier’s lip just to watch the explosion of sensation spread across his face. Dark eyes open to face him and he pulls back, grinning and breathing hard, the water rolling off him.

“You sure know how to get my attention, Reims,” he says, reaching for the shampoo and squeezing some into his hand.

“May I?” He asks for permission to wash James’ hair.

James realizes it’s just another plot to get closer to him. Jonathan’s dexterous fingers run through his hair, rubbing the shampoo in. It smells just like Bernier’s hair does. After a good amount of time, Jonathan is just stalling, making mohawks out of Reims’ soapy mop instead of actually cleaning him.

Suddenly, a stinging pain attacks James’ eye. Somehow, shampoo got in there and now James is cussing and attempting to get it out of his eye. Jonathan just kind of stands there, watching as James frantically rubs his eye, only making it worse. James positions himself underneath the shower stream, directing it over his eye, but it makes it burn _more._ Jonathan tries washing the shampoo out of the other goalie’s hair, which is the least of James’ problems right now.

“Fucking _stop_ Bernier!” James says, pushing him away a little.  He rushes from the shower and runs to the sink, flushing his eye out with cold water, relaxing as the pain slowly drains from him. Bernier just stands alone in the shower depleatedly. James finishes washing out his hair in the sink and exits the bathroom without glancing over at Bernier, who finishes his shower alone.

James sits at the granite island and waits for Jonathan since he doesn’t have a ride to the rink. He is wearing the clothes he wore from last night since he didn’t want to borrow any more clothes, even though they don’t wear suits to practice. He fiddles with his keychain; specifically with the stupid key finder that Bernie gave him. He looks up and notices a framed picture to the right. It’s the only thing on the island and he wonders why he didn’t see it before. He picks it up and studies it. It’s a picture of a beautiful blonde girl with perfect teeth and a perfect body. She photogenically smiles into the camera. It’s Martine, Jonathan’s ex-girlfriend, the one he drunkenly told him about. James can see why Jonathan would miss her; she’s _perfect._ Toward the edge of the picture a little bit of Bernier’s tattooed arm is visible as though he tried to cut himself out of the picture and only capture Martine.

James puts the picture back and he immediately wants to leave. _You don’t deserve Jonathan_ he tells himself, _Martine is who he wants._ James quietly leaves the apartment, angry with himself.

The walk home is long and quiet. Bernier normally breaks the silence. So, James just shuffles along the street, hands shoved into his pockets until he reaches his own apartment.

 

When Jonathan enters the kitchen, the realization sinks in that James went home. He didn’t think he’d actually leave and it _hurts_ because just when he thinks James is opening up to him, just when he thinks that it will work out between them, James shuts himself out, like he doesn’t want Jonathan, like Jonathan is _nothing._ Bernier grows angry. He explodes and slams his fists against the wall in frustration. “Why does everyone I love leave me?” He shouts, kicking over a chair then grabbing his keys and storming out of the apartment.

He drives dangerously when he’s angry. He knows that James will be at the rink early. He knows that James always gets on the ice early and is one of the last people to get off. And James is already dressed and on the ice when Jonathan gets there.

Throughout the practice, Bernier cools off as he begins to get into the rhythm of his work as always. Every save, he forgets a little more. Every pad slide he forgives James. But, he still finds himself watching the other goalie when he is not occupied by the drills.

Coach calls the skaters over to discuss a new penalty kill and Jonathan spots James sneaking away to get water at the bench and Bernier meets him over there, not because he’s thirsty. James squirts water all over his face, breathing hard and taking needy gulps. Bernier leans against the boards nonchalantly, hitting James supportively on the pad with his stick.

“Fun time last night?” Bernier asks cheerfully, grinning wide.

James just glares, back to his angry self again, his mouth full of water.

“You put on quite a show,” Bernier continues, averting his eyes to the ice, Bernier can feel Reims’ eyes latched onto him.

“All those moans you made for me,” he turns his head back, pulling up his mask with his blocker hand.

James looks furious.

“And your face when I fucked you,” Bernier winks charmingly.

James glares at the ice, his cheeks flushing pink.

“This is not the place to talk about that,” James growls.

“And my favorite part was at the end, how you said my name when you came,” Jonathan is grinning so much now, his eyes squinting.

“Bernier!” James snaps sharply.

“Yea, like that! I love it when you say my name.”

James is bright red. He’s shifting his positions a lot and Bernier is sure he’s gotten Reims all hot and turned on. An embarrassed James skates away from Bernier, back to his own net.

Jonathan notices that James doesn’t spend extra time on the ice today, getting off at the same time as everyone else. In the locker room, the other goalie undresses wordlessly and exits quickly to the workout room.

They don’t start the workout until everyone is ready, which means, despite James’ quick escape, he can’t start yet. The trainer announces that they will be doing a “partner workout”, which is exactly what it sounds like. Jonathan knows who _his_ partner will be. He glances over at James across the room who looks like he was just hit by a truck. Everyone picks their best buds on the team and begins and James stands there in utter refusal.

“Howdy, partner,” Bernie gives him a little tap on the butt.

“We are _not_ partners,” James hisses and goes off to do his own thing.

Bernier follows him over to the pull up bar. He stands off to the side and watches James do his pull ups, observing how his biceps bulge and relax with each rep. “What are you doing?” James forces out between pulls as Jonathan gets up and stands behind the other goalie.

“Getting a better view,” he grins, staring at the rippling shoulder and back muscles through his blue Leaf’s shirt.

After James finishes, Bernier pumps out his sets and they move on to the core station, then the legs, and finally agility.

When the workout is over, the two go over to the ellipticals to cool down.

James slouches on his bike, and Jonathan notices. So, to help out a friend, he repositions Reims’ hips.

“The fuck, Bernie?” Reims stutters a little, surprised by the contact.

“Fixing your form, otherwise it’s real bad for your groin and hips. And I know how much you use your groin and hips, so we can’t have any injuries,” Bernier says pleasantly.

James is taken aback by this reason and mumbles a thank you.

The two walk out to the parking lot together, wordlessly. Everyone else has gone home to pack for their trip to Ottawa and get ready to leave so it’s only the two goalies in the lot. It’s still light out, so Jonathan doesn’t pull any moves. Instead, James grabs Bernier and forces him into a hug, catching him off guard. Jonathan isn’t really a hugging person, it’s too touchy feely for him, but this is different. This is a silent apology. This is a “never let me go” statement. James rests his head against Bernie’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry I blinded you,” Jonathan whispers.

“I’m sorry I’m a jerk,” Reims says into his shoulder.

Bernier can smell his shampoo on James’ hair.

He smiles a little, rocking James back and forth, Bernier says, “Yes, but you’re mine.”

 

 


	17. Lions and Lambs

Jonathan is dreading today. He doesn’t want to get out of bed. Tonight is the Toronto vs. L.A. game. He feels sick just thinking about it. Quick is probably not even going to be making the trip because of a groin injury. Jonathan doesn’t know how he got said injury; maybe it was because Quick doesn’t have good form on the elliptical bike. Or it could be because he is doing the splits 24/7, which is known to do a number on the tender area.

Jonathan spends the majority of the day in bed; he even skips the optional morning skate. He doesn’t even feel like getting up to walk to the living room to watch T.V. so he just listens to music on his phone.

Around four he drags himself out of the apartment and to the rink. He arrives late and probably looks like shit. He didn’t fix his hair this morning or shave or do anything to make himself even the slightest bit pleasing to the eye except pull on his dress clothes, which took a lot of effort anyway. He doesn’t do anything to prepare himself for the game: no mental meditation, no taping his sticks (he gets the trainer to do it for him tonight), no pregame meal. He just gets half dressed and sits in his locker, staring at the Leaf’s logo on the floor.

The goalies lockers were moved into the corner next to each other, by request of Carlyle two weeks ago, to encourage bonding. Little does Coach know that they have been doing a little bonding outside of hockey that is a tad more effective than putting their lockers next to each other.

James comes in to get dressed. He is silent, mentally preparing for the game if he gets the chance to play. Jonathan has a feeling he won’t. Carlyle is gonna give Bernie the start. It’s the perfect game for him. Plus, Reims hasn’t been playing that well. 

The perfect thing about James is that he is so thoughtful. He probably notices the glaring silence from the next stall over.

Jonathan feels a delicate finger tracing along his left arm and up his shoulder. It’s James, observing Bernier’s large lion tattoo. Jonathan normally wears a long sleeve shirt in the locker room because it gets cold, but today he goes au natural.

“Lions don’t lose sleep over lambs,” the other goalie whispers, still fascinated by Bernier’s ink, his finger still skimming, “And a Jonathan Quick is nothing compared to a Jonathan Bernier.” He grins and blue eyes meet Bernier’s. Even when James isn’t playing, he supports Jonathan. At this moment, Bernier knows that James Reimer isn’t the same one from the beginning of the season.

Sure enough Carlyle announces that Jonathan will be starting the game. He puts trust in Jonathan’s hands that he will perform and win this game for the Leafs. Coach doesn’t know that Bernier sat in bed all day because of the Kings’ goalie. He doesn’t know that Bernier was late to the rink or that he didn’t prepare for the game he’s starting. And he doesn’t know that as Jonathan walks through the tunnel, he’s sweating nervously and breathing fast, weakly dreading what lies ahead.

The game starts out fine, with Jonathan making easy saves early in the first, not really being tested. He notices that Quick is, in fact, not playing and some rookie is in net and another plausible rookie is backing him up on the bench. About halfway through the first period, the Kings get a power play and sure enough it’s Doughty from the point walking in and roofing it. The Kings lead 1-0. Jonathan easily brushes off this goal, telling himself that he was screened at that Drew always knew where to shoot on Bernie.

The Leafs tie it up, but the Kings come back again in the third period when Jeff Carter scores fivehole on Bernier. It is a quick two on one play and Jeff decides to carry the puck and rip it. Bernier is startled by his quick shot and cant decide whether to stand up or butterfly and tries to make an awkward save, failing.

They score again with two minutes left in the third. Jonathan goes out to play a puck, which ends up right at the Kings defenseman who makes a good pass to the right side to a player and takes a good hard shot passed Bernier.

Silence overcomes the locker room. Carlyle is completely positive in the post-game talk. Jonathan feels queasy. Everyone is telling him he played great, that Jonathan kept them in it. His mouth is dry, but he refuses to drink, his stomach aches but food wont help. Undressing is painful and slow and he can feel James watching him intently.

His only relief is when James corners Bernier in the bathroom. Bernier is walking around shoeless with his Leaf’s hat shading his face and sweats dragging on the floor in the back, trying to clean up his stuff from his shower when James seizes the opportunity. Their teammates are taking their turns using the showers and they only have moments to spare. James presses a chaste kiss to Bernier’s lips, hugging him close, tipping the brim of his hat up a bit so he can see his eyes better. He can feel James’ grin against his mouth. It ends so quickly, but Bernier is glad Reims snuck one. He’s not angry with him, despite the loss hanging over his head.

Reims stays late after the game to fit a work out in, so Bernier walks out of the rink alone. It’s dark out and a clean blanket of snow coats the asphalt under the parking lot lights. His feet crisply mar the fresh layer. When Bernier reaches his car, his voice gets caught in his throat. He can’t decide whether he’s angry or _really_ fucking angry. Standing there, waiting next to his car stands Jonathan Quick, hands in pockets, beanie pulled over his ears, grinning. Bernier hesitates. He is normally a pretty laid back guy, but at this moment, he’s poised to take a swing at Quick.

“Nice game,” He says smoothly, taking a step closer to Bernier.

Bernier steps back a little. He can’t get too close. He has little restraint and if Quick gets any nearer, Jonathan might let loose.

“Except for y’know, the goals, but hey, that happens,” he is almost arms length away now.

Bernier takes an aggressive step forward, Quick just smirks.

“Go ahead Bernie, see what that solves,” Quick says craftily.

But he doesn’t want to anymore. He knows that socking Quick, even if it gives him temporary satisfaction, wont fix anything, and Quick knows this too. He relaxes his shoulders a bit, putting more distance between him and the Kings’ goalie.

Bernier studies him. He leans a little to the right, which probably means that it’s his left groin that is injured. He is wearing dress clothes, so he probably sat up in the Kings’ healthy scratch box for the game.

“Why are you here?” Bernier hisses, his voice is full of venom.

“Because I missed you, Bernie,” Quick says plainly.

Bernier glares at him under the dim parking lot lights. The snow is falling harder now, but neither seem to mind.

“Are we just gonna stand here or are you gonna do something?” Quick asks, he’s obviously been standing by Jonathan’s car for a while.

Bernier briskly trudges to his car. He unlocks it and gets in, unfortunately so does Quick.

“No, get the hell out, Jonathan,” Bernier growls. He will not be taking Quick home tonight.

“Too late, my bus already left, so you’re gonna just have to drive me back to my hotel. It’s just around the corner,” Quick smiles.

“Well, sucks for you because I’m not driving you-” Bernier is cut off by Quick crushing their lips together, pushing his tongue into his mouth. Bernier can feel a hand traveling down his thigh getting close to his dick. His face is getting hot all over. He can’t taste any alcohol on is mouth, meaning Quick is doing this sober.

Bernier bites down on Quick’s lip hard, hard enough to break the skin, hard enough to force him to back out of the kiss.

“Still biting I see,” Quick says, using his tongue to check the inside of his mouth for blood.

“I’ll drive you to your hotel and that’s it. You leave me alone,” Bernier says, starting the car.

The entire five-minute drive, Quick keeps his hand on Bernier’s thigh, slowly rubbing his leg. When they pull into the lot, Quick doesn’t get out of the car. Jonathan looks at him expectantly, but Quick knows what he wants.

“Come inside with me,” he requests.

Jonathan just shakes his head, keeping an even voice, “I’m not going in with you, Jonathan.”

At this, the King’s goalie leans in close, so the two are face to face, and speaks with a winning, charismatic voice.

“I’ve been waiting such a long time for this Bernie,” his hand drifts further up on his thigh. “I’ve missed seeing your face,” his other hand comes up to cup his cheek, swiping a thumb over his bottom lip in the process. “And your smile,” he smirks his half smile, “Can I get another peek?”

Bernier continues to frown.

“Aw, c’mon, Bernie,” he presses his palm against Jonathan’s crotch through his pants. Bernier’s breath hitches. “Just come inside for a little while, you can leave whenever you want.”

Bernier grits his teeth, “I want to leave _now_.”

“Mmmm not until you come inside,” Quick closes their lips together, his hand rubbing against Jonathan’s dick through his dress pants.

“Five minutes and then I’m gone,” Jonathan breathes heavily, getting out of the car.

 

Jonathan doesn’t know what he’s doing. He should have just stayed in the car. He hates this. It’s the kissing that always does him in. It’s not like they’re going up to his room to play checkers or catch up. They’re going up to fuck. And Jonathan doesn’t know why he goes. There’s nothing Quick has to offer him.

This runs through his head as Quick is taking off his coat and licking up his neck. Jonathan is fumbling with the other goalie’s pants buttons and Quick ends up undoing them himself. Quick has Bernier pressed up, his back against the wall, sucking and nipping at his collarbone. Jonathan is painfully hard, but Quick wont let him rut against him.

When Quick pulls away to sit on the side of the bed, Bernier whimpers at the loss of contact of the other goalie’s mouth. Quick just sits there, calmly taking off his dress shoes and socks. Bernier watches him, breathing hard.

“What are you doing?” Bernier asks between breaths.

“Trainer says I have to keep off the groin,” is all he says and Jonathan knows where this is going.

“I didn’t fucking agree to that,” Jonathan spits out angrily.

Quick just continues to casually undo his other shoe, not looking up. But, Jonathan doesn’t leave. Once again he is given an escape, but he stays.

“Well, Bernie? Make a fucking move. Are you gonna leave or kneel before your king?” Quick grins at his own cleverness, removing his second sock.

Bernier is furious with himself as he gets level with Quick’s crotch, removing his hard cock from his boxers, stroking it a couple of times. Gingerly, he kisses up the shaft, then retracing his steps with his tongue. Quick is moaning heinously. With a need to end this faster, Jonathan takes all of Quick in his mouth, swallowing down most of his length. Quick knows that Jonathan knows what he’s doing, so he doesn’t need to thread his fingers through Bernier’s hair to help him out.

Bernier swirls his tongue around the tip and when he looks up, he watches the other goalie as he tips his head back to face the ceiling, cussing loudly. Jonathan sticks his hand down his own pants and strokes himself in rhythm, already leaking precum. He scrapes his teeth teasingly along the other goalie's cock then deep throats the entire length. Quick is close. Jonathan can hear his heavy breathing over the pounding in his own ears. When Quick comes, he holds Jonathan’s head in place, and Jonathan just swallows. When Bernier strokes himself through his own orgasm, he hears James in his head crying out his name as he fucks him. He comes hard; eyes shut tight, mouth wide open and panting.

Instinctively, Bernier gets into bed with the other goalie. Quick presses kisses between his shoulder blades. He can feel his fingers running up his body, remembering him, his voice on his neck, “You’re the best at it, Bernie.” When Quick drifts off, Jonathan is still awake. He doesn’t want to sleep. He wants something else.

So, in the dark hotel room, Bernier slips out of bed, pulls on his clothes, and walks out. It’s late, about one in the morning, and the hotel is asleep. No one notices him leave.

In the parking lot, the snow falls silently. To Bernier, the world is asleep as he drives along the frozen road. He doesn’t listen to music on the ride, he just stays focused on driving, more focus than he put into the game.

When he reaches the apartment, he takes the elevator, he can feel his eyes threatening to close. When he knocks, James comes to the door, half-awake. His eyes are red-rimmed and his hair is all over the place. He doesn’t say a word as he lets Jonathan in.

Jonathan’s feet are freezing under the covers, so he tucks them under James’ legs. The other goalie doesn’t object. Reims presses kisses to Bernier’s hair, as though he _knew_ what Jonathan had done and he was _expecting_ Bernier to show up like this. James doesn't ask about the bruise on Jonathan's collar bone or the reason why he came. He just lets him curl up with him and lets Jonathan tuck his head under James' chin. Before James got into bed, he shut the curtains, even though Jonathan didn’t ask him to. He knows that Jonathan likes a lot of pillows, so he pushed all five of them to his side. On James’ huge bed, Bernie faces Reims, who allows him to stroke his cheek, even if it’s more for Jonathan than James.

As sleep is slowly crawling upon him Jonathan rests his hand on James’ hip reluctantly, as if Reims wont be there when he wakes up. He keeps his eyes open, watching James’ icy blue orbs staring back through the nighttime. A forgiving kiss is pressed to Jonathan’s forehead and Reims’ words pierce the darkness, “Bernie, Lions don’t lose sleep over lambs.” And with this, Jonathan can shut his eyes.


	18. Locked Out

The Leafs arrive at their Pittsburgh hotel late Sunday night. From the next room over, Gardiner and Reilly watch T.V. turned up extra loud. James tries to sleep but the noise is too much. He wonders if any of his other teammates can hear it too. He listens to the dialogue and guesses they’re watching _Blades of Glory_.

Bernie was sitting on the back of the bus and just sort of disappeared when they got off, so James is alone, once again, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep.

Voices travel over from the other room in unison, “We’re gonna skate to one song and one song only. Lady Humps by the Black Eyed Peas.”

“Shut the fuck up Gardi!” JVR wails from across the hall.

“Turn that shit off!” Clarkson echoes from two doors down.

“Stop shouting I’m trying to hear!” Franson returns.

James rolls over and shoves his face into the pillows to drown out the sounds.

“Stop talking!” he shouts into his pillow, but he doesn’t think anyone can hear him.

He needs to sleep. They have a big game tomorrow against the Pens and he cannot afford to miss any sleep.

The door is opened and the noise is magnified.

“Shut the door,” James muffles through the pillows.

The door is still open and the arguing is continuously loud enough to wake hell.

“Shut the damn door,” he growls, not lifting his head but chucking a pillow blindly to make his point clearer.

“Alright, Jesus Reims,” Bernie says shutting the door, picking up the pillow at his feet and tossing the it onto his own bed.

“Oh, so I’m not allowed to talk but Bernie is? What the hell Reims?” Gardiner says from the room over. This starts another wave of arguing.

“Leave him alone dickhead!” Kessel snaps.

“Who are you calling dickhead, dickhead?” Reilly retorts.

And so on and so forth.

James can hear Bernie settling his stuff down and sorting it. James didn’t bother to hang his suits in the closet because Jonathan always ends up taking up all the space anyway. He can practically feel the cool air rushing off Bernie. Was he outside? It was snowing when they got off the bus.

Bernie stops shuffling around for a moment and pauses, “Green tea?” he asks.

James replies tiredly, “I checked already, they don’t have any.” He lifts his head from the pillow and runs a hand through his hair drowsily. The alarm clock reads 1:56 AM. Bernier is standing next to the T.V. double-checking his stuff.

Jonathan laughs a little and cocks his head. “I know, I checked too. That wasn’t a question.” The other goalie pulls a box of tea from his duffle and tosses it to James. “I got you honey too because it tastes like shit without it.”

“But I don’t like-” James begins.

“Just try it, Reims,” Bernier says, tossing him a little bottle of the golden serum.

The box is cold in his hands, but the honey is warm, as if Jonathan kept it inside his coat so it wouldn’t freeze.

“Are you just gonna stare at it?” Jonathan asks, plugging in the coffee maker.

“No,” James mumbles, getting out of bed and dragging himself to the bathroom to get water.

The halls have quieted now and it just Bernie and Reims standing in front of the coffee maker in their dim room in their pajamas, watching and waiting for the hot water to come flowing out the little spout. The little machine makes some quiet humming noises in preparation. Bernier wraps a loose arm around James, wearily bringing him close. James can feel how cold Jonathan is when he’s pressed against him. They haven’t been this close since Jonathan showed up at his apartment and slept in his bed. James doesn’t know exactly what happened, but it probably had something to do with Jonathan Quick lurking around the Air Canada Centre. James saw him before the game outside the Kings’ locker room while walking into the rink.

James’ fingers intertwine with Jonathan’s, their palms pressing to each other’s lightly. Immediately, Bernie draws back from this show of affection.

“My hands get really sweaty,” Jonathan says, wiping them on his pajama bottoms.

“I don’t care,” James says, making another attempt to grab at Jonathan’s hands.

He pulls back again, “I’m serious Reims.”

The two stand in silence, leaning against each other to stay upright, watching for water to come out. But none does and defeated, they go to bed, each in their own. When James finally falls asleep, he wishes that the tea had brewed just to have a reason to stay up a little longer with Jonathan.

 

James wakes up late the next day. He would have slept in later than noon if it weren’t for an unexpected wake up call.

It feels like a small object, the size of a quarter, but not as heavy, hits him on the cheek. He picks up on the sound of plastic crinkling faintly from across the room. Then, another small object hits him. About the fourth time, he opens his eyes a little, peering around the room. The curtains are shut, so it’s pretty dark, but since it’s midday, light finds its way in through the sides and bottom of the windows where Bernier can’t shut it out. He flicks his eyes over to Bernie’s side of the room where he sits cross-legged on the bed, Leaf’s hat pulled down far over his eyes, scrolling his phone with one finger. The T.V. is on, but thankfully muted, that show about puppies.

When he finally looks up from his phone, his face brightens to see James finally awake.

“They gave me a whole fucking bag!” He grins, showing his perfect teeth and squinting his eyes.

“A bag of what?” James asks, pushing himself slowly into an upright position propped up on his elbows.

“Of mints,” Jonathan says, holding it up for him to see.

Now James spots the wrappers all over the night table and the small collection of still wrapped ones thrown across the room gathered in his bed. He gathers them and places them on the night table. They’re the ones that Bernie is always stealing from the hotels the team stays at.

Jonathan starts talking about food places around that they can go to since there is no team lunch scheduled. James gives Bernier the opportunity to choose the lunch place because he could care less where they go. Since Bernie is already ready, it’s James who is holding them up. He can’t find his shoes and his jacket or his hat and Jonathan eventually just gives up and goes down to wait in the lobby, shoving a handful of mints in his jacket pocket before he goes. James finally finds his jacket and as he’s tugging it on, he notices the coffee maker with the styrofoam cup underneath, ironically filled with water. The tea bag James put in the night before had done its job and a cold cup of Green Tea sits deserted. He brings the cup to his lips and tips it back, letting a little of the cold liquid to enter. It’s disgusting. He should have known that it would be too strong, sitting there all night. He feels no remorse pouring it down the drain on his way out. It was a nice thought though.

 

James leans his back against the glass, his head resting, staring out at the mass of fans filling the Consol Energy Center. The air scrapes against his cheek as the players skate by him. He tucks his fingers into the opening in the top of his goalie pads, resting on his knees for warmth.

Jonathan got the start for tonight’s game. _Again._ James is upset. He’s so frustrated with how he’s playing. He feels like he’s doing so well, an improvement from last year, but Bernier just does better. Bernie just plays like there’s nothing holding him back. Like he has no pressure, no worries, effortlessly controlling every situation.

And then there’s James. So angry, so nervous. Each mistake piles up in his brain, weighing him down. Each puck that goes by him pushes him further away from the success he so graciously wants. _Needs._

When the failures get to him, he falls back into missing April. He shuts his eyes and remembers her voice, her skin, her smile, her touch. And it hurts. And it’s hard to forget once he’s started. It all comes back at once. Their first date at a hockey game. The day he moved all her stuff into boxes and left it outside his door for her to come and pick up.

Tonight is one of those nights. Staring into the mix of blue and gold and black, he hears April. She talks about the movie she saw with her friends and how well James did at practice this morning. She then tells him that he’ll never be good enough to be the starter and that it’s obvious that James is getting worse. It’s times like these when he holds his breath and shuts his eyes until he can no longer hear her voice or see her face.

But she doesn’t leave. She’s still there. He remembers the time they had brunch overlooking the ocean and James accidentally spilled Sunrise Punch on her new sundress. It had little yellow flowers on it. She said she wasn’t upset, really she said she wasn’t, but James knew he fucked up.

Just like he knew now somehow he fucked up, which is why he isn’t playing, still everyone says he’s fine. He glances over to Bernier in net, standing tall. The Leafs uniform is bright under the large arena lights, the blue logo clearly printed on his chest as if to say _I belong here and now I’m going to prove it_.

When the period ends, James is the last to go into the locker room. He blankly stares as the blue uniforms pass. The last to pass by him is Jonathan, who gives him a light head-to-head bump before going on ahead. His face was so close to his, he could practically feel the cold on-ice air rushing off Bernie.

By the third period, James can’t take it. He grips the tops of his pads to restrain himself from letting out a battle crying and going out there himself. It’s tied 1-1 midway through the third. Jonathan isn’t doing bad at all. I mean the Leafs aren’t losing. With six minutes left, Crosby scores. James is shaky. He _knows_ he could have stopped it.

Carlyle pulls Bernie, putting an extra attacker on. James sucks in his breath when the other goalie gets onto the bench. There’s barely any space on the end for Jonathan to sit or stand where the two goalies are crammed, so Jonathan just takes a seat on James’ pads. James peeks around him to get a glimpse of the offensive zone. When the Pens score the empty netter to make it 1-3, Jonathan stands up. He doesn’t seem angry. He’s actually fairly pleasant, winking at James and grinning a bit, “Nice game, eh Reims?” Bernier turns and walks down the tunnel, alone.

Bernie is already half undressed when James finally makes his way to the locker room. His hair is wet and messy and the tired goalie doesn’t bother to put a hat on to cover it up. Bernie leans down to untie his skates, his face close to James’, busy undoing his own laces.

“Mmmm, so how’d I do, Reims?” He asks, cocking his head to face him.

James just sort of nods a response.

“Words, Reims, I can’t understand you any other way,” Jonathan says. He hesitates as though thinking, then leans right against James’ ear whispering, “Except your sex noises. I can understand those pretty well.”

James doesn’t really focus on what Jonathan says, “How come you don’t react… After a loss I mean.”

Bernier looks very calm at this moment. So poised and reactive. He sits back in his stall for a few seconds, pondering the question. Before he answers, he reaches into James’ stall plucking the hat he wore all game, and pulling it onto his own head backwards.

“Because I did well. And I did all I could do. To simply put it, Reims, I did my part. They just have to do theirs,” he nods toward the rest of the team in their own stalls.

James watches his skates. He doesn’t understand. How is he so relaxed about this. He let in goals. He made mistakes. They didn’t _win_.

“And even when I don’t do my best, I still won't let it hang over me, because no one cares if you sit back and sulk because of a shit game. They don’t want to see that,” Jonathan finishes pulling off his other skate and tosses it in his bag.

“Bernie,” James begins. The other goalie lifts his head, giving full attention. “You’re wearing my fucking hat,” is all Reims says before he pulls it to face forward because it looks ridiculous backwards. Bernie just grins.

 

On the bus ride back to the hotel, James sits in the back, glancing out the window at the snowy streets flying by. He misses April. He remembers how she used to come to all of his games. She would sit in the stands, even if she was by herself, surrounded by random drunk strangers, and watch.

Of course James gets to the room before Jonathan. He’s always lingering in the lobby or fooling around somewhere in the hotel, coming back much later. James doesn’t feel like showering. He didn’t _do_ anything, so why should he? And there’s no point in reading when James doesn’t get into it. Instead, James lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He pictures April next to him, head resting on his shoulder, a hand on his chest. Her breath ghosting against his cheek as she drifts asleep. And like this James lays, eyes wide open, staring up, waiting, _wanting_ for the pain to go away. Why does he keep thinking about her? Why can’t he just stop? The thought of April, so bittersweet.

Jonathan had to come back to the room at some point. When he does, he knocks.

“Hey, Reims, I forgot my key,” a voice calls from beyond the door.

James just stares at the little rigged lines on the ceiling.

“C’mon man open up,” he says, laughing a little, thinking it’s a joke.

James doesn’t move. He doesn’t open up the door. He’s just fine with leaving Jonathan locked out.

“I know you’re in there, I saw you take the stairs after you got off the bus.”

James turns his head slightly toward the door. He imagines April shifting her position next to him ever so slightly.

“I know you can hear me Reims,” he calls.

Neither of them speak for a while. Silence consumes both sides of the door until James finally gets up, opening the door. His face is completely solemn, while Bernie’s is not. He grins a half smile, still thinking this whole thing is a joke, slowly realizing it’s not. Just before James shuts the door in his face, he leans in and kisses Bernier softly on the lips, wordlessly.

He leaves Jonathan locked outside the room tonight. He probably will have to sleep in Dion’s room because Dion never has a roommate.

In the dark room, James lies alone. He can only think about April.

The day April came to pick up her boxes of stuff at James apartment, she knocked on the door, even though James triple checked that he had packed ALL of her belongings and didn’t forget anything so she wouldn’t _have_ a reason to knock. But she does knock. And James comes to the door. When he opens it up, he stands face to face with her. She leans in, kissing James one last time, softly on the lips, just as James did before he shut the door on Bernier. James doesn’t sleep that night.


	19. April Showers Bring May Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a little bit of French speaking in this chapter, so I recommend having a translation at the ready

His phone is heavy in his pocket against his thigh, the material swishing as he walks. He knows Bernie texted him last night. He heard his phone vibrating against the wooden table from across the room but didn’t dare to get up and check it.

James makes his way to the middle of the plane, a random seat, and puts his duffel on the seat next to him. He watches out the window, everything dark outside. It’s early, about four in the morning, and the Leafs are heading back to Toronto to catch a late game against the Panthers.

He has his head pressed against the window, slowly nodding off to the quiet rustling of his teammates crossing aisles and putting things into overhead bins. Bernie stops when he passes James. Reims can picture Bernie, grinning a little, shaking his head. He hears Jonathan lift up James’ duffle and put it in the overhead bin then sit down gingerly, not to wake the other goalie.

Their legs touch ever so slightly, the contact seeping through the side of his dress pants. The take off is smooth and the lights go out in the cabin. He can feel an arm tuck around him, getting in between him and the window. Bernie slowly brings him close, lifting up the armrest and pulling Reims against his shoulder. He keeps his eyes closed. He doesn’t want to see Jonathan. He just wants to sleep. Bernie tucks James’ head under his chin. You’d think they would be in a private place by how close they are.

Jonathan isn’t mad. James can tell. He rocks Reims slowly back and forth, whispering in French softly.

“Vous êtes si bon pour moi,” his words are so soft, so reassuring, as if he’s trying to coax James to wake up.

He laughs quietly, “Vrai, parfois, vous me tester.” He pauses for a moment, searching for words, “mais je n'arrive toujours pas à obtenir assez de vous.”

Bernier breaths heavily. “Reims, vous êtes une partie de moi ... Sans vous… je suis incomplet.”

Silence follows afterward. He can feel Bernier’s eyes watching him.

“Reims, I can tell you’re not sleeping,” Bernie says.

James doesn’t want to open up. He’s embarrassed.

“C’mon, I want to see your eyes,” Jonathan says quietly through the darkness. “Just a quick look and then you never have to see me again.”

But these are lies. James will have to see Jonathan again. Every day. They play for the same team, maybe for years, until either of them gets traded.

And James listens to the lies. Gradually, he opens his eyes and the vision of Bernie comes into view. He’s smiling gently, dark eyes watching intently. Reims can feel his ears getting hot and his cheeks doing the same. Bernie presses their foreheads together for a short moment.

“You’re so good to me Reims,” He whispers and James doesn’t believe him.

He locked Bernie outside the room last night because he was having his own problems with April. He hated him at the beginning of the season and sometimes still does. He ran away from his apartment and ignored him when all Jonathan does is give him love. He buys him tea and honey and keeps it warm for him. He keeps him company on Thanksgiving and forgives so easily. Reims isn’t good to Bernie; Bernie is good to Reims.

James tries to shy away a little, but Jonathan holds him there tightly, still smiling, so happy.

“Why do you do this to me?” James asks into the darkness.

“Mmmm, what do you mean, Reims? What is ‘this’?” Bernie asks, pressing a solid kiss to James’ red cheek.

James shifts uncomfortably, averting his eyes.

“I’m such a jerk to you ‘nd you always come back to me,” James says faintly.

Jonathan pulls James closer now, tucking Reims’ head under his chin again.

“Because Reims,” Jonathan says, “I need you.”

James doesn’t say anything after that. He can’t even say _I need you too, Bernie_ , because he doesn’t know if it’s true. Once again it’s Bernie giving so much to Reims and Reims giving nothing back.

 

They land and James is jolted awake. At some point in the flight, James drifted asleep, head against Jonathan’s shoulder. This is a good thing because he slept through all the ear popping. The lights come on and Reims blinks at the brightness.

“Aww look goalie bonding,” A voice from behind says. It’s Nazem Kadri, standing up from his seat slowly, smiling drowsily.

“I guess you could say they’re BROalies,” Bozie laughs from across the aisle.

Everyone just kind of stares at him because of the shitty joke.

Jonathan drove James to the airport when they left Sunday night, so James has no car.

The ride is silent, James stares blankly at the dashboard and Jonathan drives. Bernie drums his fingers against the steering wheel, then he begins to talk.

“April showers bring May flowers,” Bernie begins.

James glares, but the other goalie is unaffected.

“That is what they say. But if all the showers turned to flowers, we’d have quite a colorful day,” Bernie adjusts his mirrors as they stop at the light, his voice fluctuating with the rhythm of the poem.

“Can you fucking not?” James asks, annoyed. He’s only doing this to bother him.

“Why Reims? I’m just trying to recite this insightful poem about flowers,” Bernie says innocently.

“That’s not the damn reason and you know it, just fucking stop,” James says, narrowing his eyes.

The ride is silent until Jonathan pulls into his lot, finishing up the poem with the same interesting tone of voice, “And if all the showers turned to flowers on that rainy April day, would all the flowers turn to showers in the sunny month of May?” Jonathan turns off the car and sits for a moment.

“You’re a dick,” James says flatly.

“And why is that?” Bernier asks.

“Because I fucking hate that poem,” James says, getting out of the car.

He gets a head start but Jonathan calls after him, “Because of April?”

“Why else?” James shouts back, pushing open the door to the lobby. Of course James gets to Jonathan’s floor first and is locked out. He presses his forehead against the door, waiting for Bernier to get his ass up the elevator and open the door.

“Now you know how it feels,” Jonathan says smugly as he opens the door, letting James in first.

James likes Jonathan’s apartment. He’s been over only a couple times but he enjoys it more than his own. His favorite part is the massive floor to ceiling windows overlooking Toronto. The city is blanketed with snow, still dark out.

Reims spends the whole day at Bernier’s house, mostly sleeping in Jonathan’s bed. Apparently Bernie didn’t get much sleep last night either and joins the other goalie. But, James doesn’t really want to lie near Bernier. He scoots himself close to the edge, his leg hanging off the side. Jonathan probably notices this and tucks himself in right behind James, slinging an arm over him.

Slowly, Bernie pushes James off the edge. James doesn’t realize it until he’s falling in a tangle of sheets. He hits the floor hard, rolling over onto his back, staring up at Bernie on the bed watching him with amused eyes, face pressed against the mattress.

“Come on back up here, Reims,” Bernie offers, but James shakes his head, curling up in the sheets on the floor. And like this, James falls into a restful sleep.

 

Carlyle gives James the nod. He’s playing for the first time since he was pulled in the 3-6 loss against the Blues.  So, James throws himself into his play. His pad slides are on point, his glove saves reactive, and his passing tape to tape.

But, as always, no matter how hard James tries, no matter how focused he is, the Leafs lose with Reimer between the pipes. In the locker room, he feels oh so empty. He can’t hear the voices of his teammates or Carlyle or even Bernie. Slowly and painfully, he drags himself through the post-game interviews, accepting all the blame, and waits in his stall for the showers to clear out.

He’s alone in the empty rink after his shower. The anger builds up, the frustration boils over and at this moment, James explodes. He grabs the bottle of shampoo, hurling it against the far wall, watching the top break off. Then he goes over to the sticks, all lined up on the wall, throwing them down, not flinching when they crash loudly to the floor. But he’s not satisfied. He wants something more, something with meaning. He goes over to his stall, reaches up to the top shelf and grabs his helmet, and just before he chucks it against the ground, he reads the quote on the back of his helmet in blue writing, the quote that he reads before every game: “Obstacles are things you see when you lose sight of the goal.”

Then, with the side of his foot, he kicks it; ironically, it rolls to a stop on the Leafs logo in the middle of the floor. He’s breathing hard, eyes wild, trained on his battered equipment neglected on the floor. Absent mindedly, he makes his way over, grabbing the mask and places it back on the shelf, then walks out.

Bernie is waiting in the car, the music turned up loud. Once again, James doesn’t have a car, so he has to drive back with Bernier. James pulls open the door with too much force, getting into the car roughly, and grabs Jonathan by the back of the neck and tugs him in for a hard, needy kiss. James whimpers into his mouth, begging for more contact. Jonathan is taken by surprise at first, but then grins against his mouth.

“I have to get us home first, Reims,” Jonathan laughs when James breaks the kiss, sucking at his pulse point.

“Now,” James growls, face so close to Jonathan’s, lips brushing against his.

“In the car?” Jonathan asks as James practically climbs over into Jonathan’s seat.

James nods, undoing Bernier’s zipper.

“There’s not enough-” Jonathan begins, but James sticks a hand down his pants, creating a moan from the other goalie.

“I want you to go deep,” James says, rutting against Jonathan’s crotch, arms wrapped around the back of the seat.

Jonathan’s eyes are filled with lust at this request, leaning up to crush their mouths together. It’s sloppy and fast and different from what they normally do. Jonathan’s fingers navigate to Reims’ front zipper, then to his ass, grabbing it playfully. James is hard and doesn’t want to break away, but he needs to somehow get his clothes off.

James crawls into the back seat, breathing hard, and removes his pants, shoes, and jacket. Bernie takes off his own clothes in the front seat and makes his way into the backseat with Reims.

He presses Reims into the seat, leaning over him, sticking his tongue in his mouth.

Jonathan’s dick is pressing against him through his boxers. A loud moan leaves James’ mouth as Bernie bites hard on his earlobe.

“Fuck Bernie,” James growls.

Jonathan offers James his palm to lick, which he does so graciously. The other goalie uses the wetness to slick up his cock. Tonight, Bernie doesn’t prep Reims, he goes straight into fucking at a fast pace. James wants it to be fast, he wants it to hurt sometimes, he wants to forget about the game.

And watching Bernie pound into him, cursing loudly, Reims forgets. Every goal washes away in Bernier’s moans and his body pressing against his. Sweat pools under Reims’ shirt, but he doesn’t want Bernier to stop because Reims is too hot.

Every other pump, Jonathan hits James’ spot, so deep he has trouble catching his breath. The windows fog up and their moans fill the car. It feels so perfect, so exact, and James gets lost in it with Jonathan leaning over him, lips hot on his.

James bites up Jonathan’s jawline, whimpering and moaning along the way. Jonathan presses a hand beneath James’ back and pulls him into a sitting position, still pounding into him. He can tell Jonathan is so close, but he’s getting tired. James digs his nails into Jonathan’s back and rides up and down his dick, grinding down hard. Jonathan tips his head back cursing loudly in French. James’ dick rubs between the two of them, begging for more friction.

“Bernie,” Reims breathes, and the other goalie obeys, wrapping a loose hand around his cock and pumping too slowly.

“More,” James moans needily.

“Patience Reims,” Jonathan manages, swiping his thumb over the slit.

James cries out loudly, he’s so close, but he doesn’t want to come yet.

“Mmmm, Reims, I love seeing you fuck yourself on me,” Jonathan grins weakly, shutting his eyes.

He is half-heartedly trying to lift his hips off the seats to go deeper, and Reims drives down hard on his cock to quench the efforts, but in doing so, he hits his prostate, coming fast and riding Jonathan’s dick through it.

He moans into Jonathan’s shoulder, digging his nails into his back through the pleasure. Jonathan is going mad, obviously trying to last as long as possible.

As soon as James regains his breath, he drops his pace a little, suddenly tired. He presses their foreheads together speaking against Jonathan’s lips.

“C’mon Bernie, let go, let go for me.”

Gasping, Jonathan tilts his head back, coming deep in Reims.

The two collapse, Bernie’s leather seats sticking to their damp skin. James slowly pulls on his clothing, one piece at a time while Bernie watches him through slitted eyes, breathing heavily.

When Bernie regains his strength, he climbs into the front seat and pulls on his own clothes. They drive back to Jonathan’s apartment in silence, James fighting sleep the whole way. And when they get there, they stumble into the bedroom, legs tired, heads foggy, dragging off clothing, falling into bed. Jonathan throws an arm over Reims and Reims lets him, too tired to pull it off him. With the thoughts of April from the past few days rushing off him, James watches Jonathan as he falls asleep. He’s sitting upright, back against the headboard, observing James, hair messy and damp, eyes serious. James’ head is at Jonathan’s hip, looking up at him with clear eyes.

With one last glimpse, James shuts his eyes, thinking only of Bernie, April a distant memory. He knows that if this is what it takes to forget April, then James Reimer now needs Jonathan Bernier. 


	20. Be Good Reims

Jonathan runs a towel through his hair one last time before going to pull his shirt on. James left earlier that morning, eyes glued to the floor as Jonathan kissed him on the cheek on his way out the door. James has been quiet lately. He’s hesitant to be held, blushes easily, and doesn’t like talking. Except for last night.

As Jonathan pulls his shirt on over his head, he catches a glimpse in the mirror and quickly takes his shirt off again. Deep bruises pierce the skin where James dug his fingernails in the night before as Jonathan fucked him. Bernie runs delicate fingers along each area, grinning with amusement. Maybe James isn’t as shy as he thinks.

 

Jonathan arrives at the rink before the game against the Coyotes. He puts his stuff in his cubby, his jacket and shoes and whatnot, and does his stretching routine. He knows he won’t be playing tonight; he hurt his ankle in practice two days ago and told Carlyle he wasn’t prepared to play. So, Carlyle said that James would be taking the Leafs three game stretch at home. It’s quiet in the locker room, for Jonathan is alone except for a couple of his teammates taping sticks in the corner and Lups watching film in the next room over.

He looks over at James’ stall next to his, observing all the little details. There are at least seven half-drunk water bottles in the top cubby next to his keys and a few rolls of tape. His gear is hung up nicely and skates newly laced up. The only thing out of place is the other goalie’s helmet. James’ prized possession sits atop the middle shelf, looking out at the locker room, watching over the team. Curious, Bernier goes to examine it. Gingerly, he grasps it by the cage and runs his fingers along the top. A small crack runs along the leaf and a little chip is taken out of the very tip, but that’s not why Jonathan is curious. The entire mask was lopsided when it was sitting in the cubby. The right corner is severed at the bottom, leaving a poor support base and an insufficient helmet. Reims will have to wear his alternate tonight.

And so James does. But no one really focuses on his helmet. They focus on how James plays. They focus on how James _wins,_ letting in only one goal and winning it in a shootout. And that’s all Jonathan can focus on too. He knows now how James feels _every_ night, watching Bernie steal the show. And he _hates_ it. He almost wishes James were playing poorly again, letting in four goals each game, getting pulled, because after the game people begin to talk. They talk about how James is finally back to his old self again and Jonathan feels threatened. And there’s only one thing to do.

The bar is dimly lit, the only light coming from the T.Vs. The strong scent of alcohol permeates the air. It’s practically empty when Jonathan walks in, dragging himself to the counter and ordering. There are only two other guys in the whole place sitting at the other side of the bar, practically sober, watching sports highlights. And so this is the place where Jonathan sits, drowning himself in whatever the bartender fills his glass with.

Jonathan doesn’t know how it happens, but he ends up at James’ apartment, hazily bumping into things as he fumbles to the couch. James stands off to the side, concerned. Jonathan must have called him asking for a ride home. His head is so dizzy and the dark apartment is difficult to navigate. When James leaves the room, Bernier, overcome by loneliness, goes to find him.

James is sifting through drawers when Jonathan comes up behind him, voice against his ear.

“C’mon Jamesss,” he says when Reims turns to face him.

James is so patient with Bernie, so kind, and politely turns down Jonathan’s request. He cups his cheeks and whispers, “Be strong for me, Bernie.”

Jonathan falls asleep in James’ bed. James agrees to stay in bed with Jonathan until he falls asleep. But, Bernie wants to talk, despite James’ constant reminders that they have a big game against the Red Wings tomorrow.

“James,” Jonathan whispers over to the other goalie.

“What?” He yawns back, rolling onto his stomach, face delving into the pillows.

“I don’t like it when people call me Bernie. I mean Bernier s’okay, but Bernie? Not s’much ‘cuz Quickie used to call me that. Bernier is just fine you know why, Reims?” Jonathan pokes James lightly in the side.

James mumbles a response.

“I like Bernier because it’s like a lil’ celebration whenever you say it. Bern-YAY!”

James turns his head to smile at Bernie, leaning up to kiss Jonathan on the lips softly, then returning his face to the pillows, breathing quietly. James falls asleep with ease and Jonathan stays awake in the haunting silence in Reims’ apartment.

 

James starts yet again, even though Jonathan told Carlyle his ankle is better. The crowd is electric at the Air Canada Centre, a mix of blue and red jerseys filling the seats. This game is so crucial for the Leafs, since the Winter Classic is closing in on them, only eleven days away. And so, after the anthems, everyone takes their seats, including Jonathan, pulling his hat on his head, annoyed.

His head pounds, his face flushed, the hangovers never last this long. Jonathan forgot the fucking Sudafed in his other jacket in his own apartment. He wishes the fans would just stop _yelling_ and the special effects guys would tone the lights down a bit. He could barely catch his breath during warm ups and was seeing double after a couple laps around the zone. When he tries to focus on the puck, he gets dizzy and shuts his eyes for a couple minutes.

That is until seven minutes into the first, Franson sets off the goal horn with a snap shot from the blue line. The fans leap out of their seats and the bench erupts. Jonathan sees stars and takes another zone out break. Two minutes later, it’s Datsyuk coming from behind the net and scoring on his backhand. Jonathan doesn’t really see it in real time, only on the big screen when it’s replayed. He never lets in backhand goals.

Not soon after that, the Wings return with a wraparound goal, another amateur mistake by Reimer, and Jonathan can feel the pressure sinking in on the netminder. Reims almost makes it out of the first period with his dignity, that is until Tomas Jurco gets the puck alone in front, trickling one in fivehole. This one Bernier does see, feeling the queasiness in his stomach rising up into his chest. _Carlyle is going to pull Reims._

And Carlyle does. In the locker room, Coach _destroys_ Reims laying down some heavy words. James just accepts fate silently, as always, nodding in understanding, probably agreeing with all the shit Coach is saying. Jonathan is dizzy. Voices are so loud. He can’t be playing. This is Reims’ fault. He couldn’t handle three fucking games in one run? Bernier always has to fix everything. James can’t even find his fucking _keys_. How is he supposed to win games?

The Leafs come to life in the second, scoring two goals to tie it 3-3. Jonathan is still pissed. He can’t see the puck. He’s heavy on his feet, breath caught in his lungs, nauseous. But, he still shuts out Detroit in the second.

The third period is a blur, a watercolor masterpiece of jersey colors running together. Everything sounds distant, his teammates tapping their sticks from the bench after Bernie makes a big save that he can’t even remember making, the fans calling out his name, the music echoing through the building. But, he does remember watching the puck go by him on Tatar’s stick after recovering a rebound in front. Jonathan can’t even recall when the Leafs scored, but the score is now 4-4, going into OT.

Jonathan is great with five-minute overtimes, which is why the Leafs make it to a shootout. Jonathan is good at OT, not at shootouts. He’s so impatient, and can’t act aggressively. Unfortunately, the two skaters picked for Toronto miss their first two shots. The skaters for the Wings don’t and Detroit ends the game quickly.

Bernier’s head pounds, his eyes hurt behind their lids. His teammates tell him that he got the third star of the game, but Bernie doesn’t really care. He’s irritable and heated. He’s angry that James got pulled, angry that James even started in the first place. Carlyle should have known that James can’t go three games straight, not this year at least. James didn’t deserve to get yelled at. James should have stood up for himself. James is so fucking weak, why can’t James just carry himself? Jonathan is angry when JVR misses the trashcan after he tosses a tape ball across the room. His laces are extra tight tonight and it makes his fingers hurt when he undoes them. He’s especially angry when Carlyle walks out, he mumbles a quick phrase to Jonathan, but loud enough for James to hear: “You’ll be starting the Winter Classic, Bernie.”

Bernier is furious. That is James’ game. James worked so hard for it and fucked it up in one period. Jonathan doesn’t deserve it, he just got here a couple months ago, Reims has done so much for the Leafs organization. He can practically _feel_ the other goalie deflate from the stall over.

Jonathan dwindles in the locker room, even though he really fucking wants to go home. He leans his back against the wall, listening, waiting. When Reims comes into the locker room after his shower, Bernier blocks his path. Everyone else has gone home, once again.

“Eh, stop there,” Jonathan nudges James back a little. Nudge wouldn’t be the right word to use, it was a full on _shove_ to get a reaction out of Reims.

James wordlessly accepts the shove, his head facing the floor shamefully.

“You need to fucking stop all this shitty ‘I’m not good enough’ crap,” Jonathan says forcefully.

James doesn’t respond. He looks so depleted, so unhappy.

But Jonathan is still angry, “Hey, look at me,” he snaps when James doesn’t react.

James doesn’t move.

“Fucking look at me,” he hisses, reaching a hand out to tip James’ chin up.

James pulls away, eyes dark, lips forming a thin line.

“Leave me alone,” he whispers, so quietly, so brokenly.

“Fucking make me Reims. I guess you can’t even fucking do that!” Jonathan is furious, shoving Reimer hard again.

James steadies himself, clenching his teeth, restraining himself.

“Fight me,” Jonathan says quietly.

James shakes his head.

“Fight me!” Bernier says again, this time louder, hitting James hard across the face.

James doesn’t hold back now. He lunges at the other goalie. Pulling him to the ground.

“You fucking deserve the Classic! Why can’t you fucking work for it? Why can’t you be good?” Jonathan yells as James grabs onto his left arm, trying to gain control.

“We can’t all be like you, asshole!” James retorts, struggling to shake Bernie’s grip.

“Why did you let in a goddamn backhander? Who lets in shitty goals like that? Stop fucking accepting things and do something!” Jonathan bites James’ wrist, getting him to pull back. Jonathan pins him to the floor, forcing his wrists down.

“Let me go!” James writhes beneath him venomously.

“You deserve better than this Reims. You don’t deserve to sit on the bench. Why can’t you understand that?” Jonathan is pained when he says this, the words aching as they pass his lips.

“Because I’m nothing,” James says, struggling more to escape Bernier.

“You’re not nothing. You’re everything to me. It hurts to see you like this,” Jonathan lowers his voice now.

“You don’t even know me. You pretend like you do, buying me all these things, acting like you care, but you don’t,” James hisses, curling his knees up and kicking Jonathan off him.

The wind is knocked out of him, forcing himself into a sitting position, eyes flickering over to James.

“And if we keep pretending and getting attached,” James continues, standing up, wiping his hands on his dress pants, “We can never move on after reality hits.”

James exits across the room, shutting the lights off as he leaves. Jonathan is still catching his breath, the words sinking in, forming a fresh wound. His head pulses in his ears, the silence finally settling. He doesn’t dare go after him. He can barely even stand up without getting lightheaded. As he walks out, he glares at the Leafs logo in the middle of the floor.

“Who puts it right in the middle of the fucking floor where everyone walks?” he mumbles to himself, stepping around it.

James ignores all of Jonathan’s calls, Bernier can tell because the ringing ends short. He ignores all of Jonathan’s texts, doesn’t even read them. James either turned off his phone or threw it out the window.

 

Practice the next day is hard. The headaches have gone away and he can see normally. James arrived at the rink early and got on the ice early, probably so he wouldn’t have to dress next to Bernier. He catches Reims staring at him a couple times, then looking away immediately after Jonathan spots him. Bernier tries to time his water breaks so they match up, but James easily skates away and toward the end of practice, he brought a water bottle over to his net so he wouldn’t even take a chance of being near Bernier.

 Jonathan lingers on the ice longer than usual today, trying to get off at the same time as the other goalie, loitering near where the players exit the surface. He makes it seem like he is working on his passing and puck handling, but really, he’s just wasting time. He glances up frequently to check on James, who is deeply focused on a net play drill with the forwards and a handful of defensemen.

When the skaters take a break from the drill to rest and catch their breath for a moment, Jonathan waits at the blue line, debating whether or not to ask Reims to come to lunch with him. He takes a few strides into the zone to the top of the circles, heading to Reims’ net, suddenly stopping when he hears talking.

James is hunched over in his crease, glove and blocker pressed against his pads, head down staring at the ice. Jonathan doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move, but strains to hear what the other goalie is saying. Moments pass and he is still silently focusing in his crease.

Finally, James starts up again and Bernier can make out the faint words he tells himself, his voice hushed.

“Be good, Reims. Be good, be good.”

Immediately, Jonathan backs away. He gets off the ice and as he walks through the tunnel, he can’t push the guilt out of the mind. He can’t stop remembering the venomous words that he screamed at Reimer the night before: “Why can’t you be good?”


	21. Merry Christmas, Jonathan

The Leafs play one last game before break. It’s against the Rangers in New York. After the game Jonathan showers at the rink. Tonight, everyone is leaving to go and visit their families for the winter break. Barely anyone goes back to the hotel after their 1-2 shootout loss.

Jonathan pulls his keycard out of his pocket, putting it into the little slot. The key doesn’t work, probably because it was next to his phone the whole time. He notices the door is, luckily, bolted and pushes it open. When Jonathan enters the hotel room, everything is still. After their last incident, James and Jonathan silently decided not to be roommates on the road. It’s not something they discussed or planned, it just sort of happened when they arrived in New York the day before. James didn’t drag himself through the door, toe his shoes off, and nap as usual. He didn’t come in at all.

But, when Jonathan steps inside the empty hotel room, he doesn’t miss the figure standing in front of the window, looking out at the snow falling gently below. The curtains are opened up way wide, just as James always does. He’s still dressed in his suit from the game, hands shoved in his pockets.

Jonathan doesn’t speak, he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing; he knows he’s hurt James bad. Bernier flinches a little when the door loudly shuts behind him. James doesn’t move, still staring at the snow.

“You would’ve had to expect it could never work,” James says quietly, more to the window than to Jonathan.

The room is practically entirely dark, the window giving off little light.

“It could… still… if you want,” Jonathan said, dropping his things quietly off to the side.

As Jonathan approaches, he sees that the window is fogged up where James’ mouth is, probably because James caught a cold and can’t breath through his nose.

“It’s not a simple thing,” James says, Jonathan can see his deep blue eyes reflecting off the glass.

“I like complex,” Jonathan says carefully.

James lets out a smile, grinning a little and turning to face the other goalie.

James looks so upset. His face broken. He won’t look at Jonathan, even though Jonathan demands his attention. He just wants things to be like they were before for that short period of time that they were okay.

“We don’t fit,” James whispers, eyes on his shoes.

“Opposites attract, Reims,” Jonathan murmurs, reaching out to intertwine his fingers with James’.

But James turns his head to the side and tucks his hand behind his back slowly.

It hurts. It feels like a brick being dropped on his toe or getting a hit to the stomach.

“Please,” Jonathan says, James can’t be doing this. He can’t just walk out. He can’t just _leave._ They have so much. James isn’t _trying_ enough. James doesn’t _want_ it enough.

As James walks by, he puts a loose hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, murmuring quietly, “Merry Christmas, Jonathan,” before he continues to walk out, letting the door shut loudly behind him.


	22. Words of Habit

James flies back to Toronto that night after the game. It’s very late when he pushes his way through the front door of his apartment, not bothering to turn on any lights. It’s so cold, so stark when James enters. He didn’t leave the heat on all weekend and the apartment is unwelcoming. The sound of his shoes hitting the hardwood floors sends chilling loneliness through him, so he opts to remove them.

There’s so much to think about at this moment. He just keeps shoving all the thoughts out of his mind. He dares not to focus on anything, to feel any emotions. Quietly, he patters to the closet, reaching for extra blankets. Fingers run along the soft fabrics, fumbling to grasp them through the numbing stiffness. James buries his face in the material, running it along the sides of his face, searching for comfort.

As he throws the covers onto his bed, he mumbles something about calling his parents tomorrow about why he didn’t fly home tonight. The building is still as Reims stares up at the ceiling. It seems the whole world is still, the only noise coming from his breathing.

It feels like so long ago James stole Jonathan’s room key after their loss with every intention of using it to get into Bernier’s room. He switched it out with his own extra while Jonathan was using the rink showers. As he stuck his hand in the other goalie’s suit, he remembered the night when Jonathan had done the same to him. How Jonathan smoothly walked out with him, grinning and squinting that doofus smile, James’ stolen keys in his pocket.

His chest feels heavy as he remembers the night after James lost to Vancouver when Jonathan slept in James’ bed for the first time. How he could feel his breathing against his back and how he twitched every now and then. Jonathan always used to take all the covers; he was terrible to sleep next to because James would always end up on the edge of the bed with no blankets while Jonathan laid sprawled out, body entangled in the cloth.

When he begins to get sad, he forces Jonathan out of his thoughts, telling himself that Bernie is bad, Bernie is poisonous. He blames Jonathan for his failures, for the reasons James is sitting on the bench so often, for the way James has been playing so poorly.

The emptiness returns. He can feel the muteness throughout his apartment and how big it is with only James occupying it. He stretches his arms out to cover more ground in his bed; to trick himself into thinking he’s not so solitary. But he’s alone, just as he was after April left.

It all happened so fast, so simply, one night they were fucking in the back of Jonathan’s car and the next James is alone in his own bed, hurting. And as he drifts asleep, he misses Bernier and wishes that he were here and that he didn’t have to leave. It feels all too familiar, but this time, it hurts more than it ever could with April.

James shifts over a little, as if making room for Jonathan to tuck in behind him and press little kisses up his neck. He wraps himself a little tighter in the blankets and rolls over, and very quietly and tenderly, he whispers words of habit into the pillow, “Goodnight, Jonathan.”


	23. Here's An Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry the chapters have been so short lately! I haven't had time to sit down and write my normal length ones!

James runs to the Safeway near his house the morning before the Leafs leave for Detroit. He forgot before the break that he ran out of shampoo. He remembered as he stepped under the shower this morning, only to have to get out moments later and pull his dirty clothing back onto his sticky damp skin. His hair is still wet, freezing at the tips because it is below freezing today and threatening snow. The cold air stings his throat as he breaths it in, turning the corner into the parking lot.

The heat is so welcoming. James knows his face is probably pink and his lips are chapped. When he goes to check out, the cashier begins to talk to him.

“So did you manage to go to a Leafs game yet?” She smiles.

It’s that same girl from Thanksgiving, somehow remembering him.

James shakes his head silently as he pays.

“Ahw, well you should try and go sometime! They had a great game against the Hurricanes the other night, that Bernier made like 43 saves,” James can feel his ears getting hot.

“I like baseball,” James forces passed his lips, the words are disgusting as he hears them in his ears.

“Oh, well. Hockey is fun too!” She beams.

“I bet,” James whispers, taking his shampoo and leaving.

 

James is furious. He barely gets through his apartment door before he grabs a chair and chucks it across the room, knocking over a lamp. Then, he goes over to the marble countertop, swiping off the majority of its contents including several clear glass bowls. They hit the floor loudly, breaking against the hardwood, the glass scattering across the floor. Frustrated, James crumples against a wall, leaning his head back, breathing hard. His face is hot. When he goes to clean up the pieces, he cuts himself on the glass. He just wraps the wound in gauze when he realizes he’s late, ignoring as the cuts bleed through, pulling on his jacket, grabbing his bag and sprinting out the door.

 

Jonathan looks up at the clock again. It’s 2:30, about time to get on the plane leaving for Detroit, and James still hasn’t showed up. He gets distracted by throwing himself into a conversation with Kessel and JVR about the Winter Classic. Everyone seems so excited about it, throwing around phrases such as “biggest crowd at a hockey game in history” and “cold as fuck”.

When James arrives, Jonathan coolly makes his way beside him, grinning as always, like nothing ever happened. If Jonathan can act like everything is okay, he might be able to get James to think everything is okay too. James smiles weakly, and Jonathan’s voice gets caught in his throat, he can feel his cheeks growing pink as his smile grows bigger.

 

“How was your break?” James asks as Bernie takes his seat next to him.

_James is initiating a conversation._

“Fucking great, how about yours?” Jonathan observes James carefully.

He looks awful. Like absolute shit. Dark circles curl under his eyes, his hair greasy and messy, and he still has that cold. His dress shirt is wrinkly and creased, as though it was in a ball in the bottom of a drawer.

“It was pretty good, my mom made me a lot of food. It’s nice to eat decent stuff for a change,” he smirks a little from the corner of his mouth, dragging a hand through his hair. Jonathan spots a wrap wound tightly around James’ thumb and a few fingers.

“And did Santa bring you anything nice for Christmas?” Bernier grins, taking it that the conversation is lightening up a bit, “Aside from a poorly wrapped flesh wound?” He finishes, grasping James’ wrist and observing the afflicted area.

“Ow what the fuck man it’s just a cut,” James says a tad irritated, but still in good spirits.

Bernie slowly unwraps the gauze, being gentle as he does so, revealing three small, but deep, cuts on James’ thumb, one on his index finger, and several on his middle finger.

“Dude, what did you do?” Jonathan asks, examining each closely.

“Cut myself shaving?” James replies stupidly.

Jonathan can’t really help much, so he just rewraps his fingers, more efficiently this time.

“You,” James whispers quietly as Jonathan finishes.

“What?” Bernier looks up from his work to stare at the other goalie who is staring at his marred fingers.

“That’s what I got for Christmas this year,” Reims says softly, eyes meeting Bernier’s.

“You’re so fucking sappy,” Bernie says, lifting up the armrest dividing them and allowing Reims to lean his shoulder against his for the rest of the flight, taking it that James has forgiven him.

 

When they arrive at the Detroit hotel, Jonathan doesn’t abandon James to go to the room. Instead, he waits for James as he gets his tea in the lobby, talking to the lady at the front desk, charming her with his smile and smoothly accented words. When the two walk to their room, James carefully carrying his hot cup, Jonathan uses his hip to bump the other goalie into the opposite wall in an attempt to spill the contents. They go through the hall like this, Bernier slowly closing in on Reims each time, the other goalie hissing in annoyance as the cup comes close to tipping.

“You’re such a dick,” Reims mumbles as Jonathan opens the door, allowing him in first.

“But I have good manners,” Bernie smiles, claiming the bed closest to the window, but doesn’t go to double check all his stuff. Instead, he waits for Reims to put his cup down before he corners him against a table, hands drifting to his lower back.

“Not right now, I need to sleep,” James says as Jonathan’s hands drift down lower.

Bernier’s lips brush against the other goalie’s pulse point, the first real contact they’ve had since before their fight.

“Here’s an idea,” Jonathan begins, head coming up to face James’, so close to his, “How about you take a nap with _me_?”

Sleepily, James just nods, agreeing because he doesn’t want to negotiate or argue anymore, melting into Bernier’s touch.

 

James faces the window, staring out at the snow falling calmly. Jonathan is asleep behind him, face tucked into the back of his neck, breathing in and out of his nose. Bernier’s arm is thrown over his waist, bringing him close when they were both awake. He missed Jonathan over the break. He was so angry, so frustrated by how he played and thought he’d be better off without the other goalie. But James never got another chance to prove himself after losing because Jonathan played in the two games on home ice after the break, winning both of them.

Carefully, not to wake Bernie, Reims shifts off the bed, making his way to the window. Detroit down below the hotel is blanketed with snow and clouds linger overhead. As he comes close, the window fogs around his fingers when they touch the glass, and he can see cars and people meandering around through the wintry storm.

Pressing his forehead against the coolness, James shuts his eyes and reminisces his days of starting for the Leafs. He remembers the fans as they cheered his name, not booing him or shouting it as a curse, but cheering after a big save. Once, James stood on home ice with a reporter after a particularly astounding game. The reporter pointed to the crowd and grinning he said, “Listen to this, James, it’s for you!” The fans rose in their seats, clapping and cheering. The heart inside his chest fluttered at the noise. He remembers when everyone relied on him, the pressure and dependence felt so good, he felt so wanted. Not like the kind of pressure he has now, the pressure of making one mistake and feeling the world crashing down on him. Never has he felt so much anger, so out of control, so easily taken over by failures.

Another body is pressed against his back and his shoulders easily relax. He opens his eyes and sees Jonathan’s dark ones staring back in the reflection. The other goalie presses deep, slow kisses starting behind his ear, trailing down his jawline. And James forgets all about the fans and his starting position for just a moment.


	24. Can't Get Enough

 

Fingers tip his chin up to face the other goalie and look into his dark eyes. Jonathan traps James against the supply closet shelf, next to a folded pile of Leafs jerseys for tomorrow’s game. James’ breath stutters out as Jonathan bites down on Reims’ bottom lip, tugging at it.

“Mmmm, so good,” Bernie hisses, pulling back to observe James, eyes mulling across his face.

James’ face grows hot from all the attention, shying away from Bernier’s grip to turn away.

“C’mon bud, turn around,” Jonathan says, teeth against the other goalie’s ear, stubble scratching against his neck.

Reims tilts his head to the side only a little, allowing Jonathan to kiss his way across his cheek. Careful hands, one on Reims’ chest and the other on his hip, bring him close, breath hot.

“Sorry, I’m not gentle,” Jonathan says, dragging his teeth along Reims’ jaw, hands drifting up to tilt James’ head back more toward Bernie.

“Don’t be shy, Reims,” he coos.

James’ head pulses, heartbeat loud in his ears, chest pounding. His knees feel weak and he uses Bernie and the shelf to hold himself up.

A loud knock on the door causes James to scatter to the other side of the closet, pretending to pick out a roll of tape. Jonathan unlocks the door and opens it, facing a couple of the guys requesting his attendance in a game of warm up soccer. He nods, but tells them he needs new laces first.

After he shuts the door, Jonathan returns to James, calloused hands strong on his back, kissing him hard on the lips before grabbing a pair of laces on his way out and joining the guys.

James leans against the shelves, smile fading after Jonathan leaves. He’s barely excited for their outdoor practice on Heinz Field. Sure, it’s a cool experience and all, but he just can’t feel happy for Bernie. Flustered, he grabs a roll of tape and exits the closet, going off to tape his stick that will not stop shots in a game this weekend.

 

James leans against the boards, staring out at the massive rows of empty seats that seem to go up to meet the newly clear sky. It’s freezing outside, the dry air numbing his cheeks and fingers under his gear. And forget about trying to gain feeling in his toes. Fans crowd against the glass, oohing and aahing over the Leafs, asking them for pucks to be tossed over the glass. Most of his teammates spot a kid, pressing his or her face against the glass, and tosses a puck to them. But, as Jonathan skates around the surface, warming up, he doesn’t even spare a glance, he just focuses on himself, ignoring all the fans, all the kids calling out his name. James refrains from skating near the glass too, where the fans are, afraid of the rude insults they could shout.

Before they took the ice, the trainer attached a helmet cam to the top of his helmet, a way for the fans to get to see what James sees. When he gets out there and takes a couple warm up laps, he looks over to Bernie, wearing a Maple Leafs hat stretched over his helmet. It looks ridiculous and James almost goes over to make fun of him for it, but remembers the helmet cam. He stays away from Jonathan for the majority of the practice, convinced Bernie will say something inappropriate.

After the morning skate, the team goes back to the hotel. Before they left for practice this morning, he noticed that the bathroom has an actual bathtub, a rare find in the hotels they stay at. James gets into the room first, making sure not to bolt the door so Bernie will have to go down to the front desk and get his own key this time. Quickly, he scribbles out a note and sticks it under the door for the other goalie: _Napping. Get key from front desk._

James pulls off layers of clothing as the steamy water fills the tub and fogs up the mirror. Slowly, he lowers himself into the pleasant bath, muscles relaxing with the contact. Only a few minutes into his soaking does James hear the scuffing footsteps of Jonathan’s feet as they drag across the carpet and stop in front of the door. He can pick up on the sound of Jonathan grunting as he bends to pick up the little slip of hotel notepaper under the door, followed by silence, an exasperated sigh, and cussing in French. The feet scuff their way back down the hallway from the direction they came from, leaving James in a delightful peace.

It doesn’t last long because after about five minutes, Bernier is pushing the door open loudly, the handle hitting the wall, chucking his stuff onto his bed, then silence. James dares not to breath. He can no longer hear footsteps; only quiet grumbling from through the wall.

James almost craps himself when Jonathan yanks the door open suddenly, strutting in with only boxers on, speaking mockingly, “Napping. Yea _it sure looks like you’re napping_.” James watches with a calm face as Jonathan removes his boxers and grabs his Leafs hat off the counter, pulling it on his head, the brim low.

He’s not surprised when Bernie climbs into the tub with James, splashing and sloshing water over the sides and carelessly places limbs all over the place when he tries to cram himself in. The tub isn’t big enough for two massive hockey players. The water level rises drastically, spilling over the edges. James is annoyed but doesn’t show it, just watches silently as Jonathan tries to get comfortable. Reims refuses to give up an inch of space, so Jonathan casually untangles his long legs from James’ and splays them on either side sticking out of the water while his shoulders stay submerged under the surface. Jonathan gives a quick half-assed side grin, clicking his tongue before adjusting his hat.

James glares at Jonathan, shifting in order to obtain more personal space. Jonathan wants to get closer to James though, and chooses to rub his scratchy, hairy leg against Reims’ exposed arm.

“Ew what the fuck man,” James pulls away from him. Bernie grins.

“So, Reims, what’d’ you think of the Classic, eh?” Jonathan asks, averting his eyes, tracing a finger along his knee, inspecting a scab.

“Is this really the place?” James asks, referring to the cramped situation.

“I don’t see why not,” he shrugs, glancing up briefly from his skin, “I mean I was just curious, you don’t have to answer.”

Thankfully, a knock interrupts them for the second time that day. Jonathan growls low in his throat, rolling his eyes as he lifts himself out of the bath, slipping a little his first step on the tiled bathroom floor, catching himself on the counter, and mooning James fully.  
“Aw fuck watch it,” James groans.  
“My bad,” Jonathan apologizes, wrapping a towel loosely around his waist and going to answer the door.

James turns on the water to refill what was lost when Bernier was battling the bath. The sound of water rises over the voices of Bernie and his teammates. James stretches his legs out and dunks his head under the surface until he can’t hear anything, until it’s only James and his thoughts. He thinks dizzying thoughts of sitting on the bench, of watching yet another game. But, thankfully, he can only hold his breath for so long and when he comes up, Jonathan is back in the bathroom, undoing his towel and stepping in.

Reims sweeps the wet hair back, “Who was that?”

“Just Lups and JVR, a couple of the guys are going to the steakhouse in the lobby and they invited us,” Jonathan returns, tucking his knees in close to his chest.

“And you said we are coming right?” James asks, wiping the water out of his eyes. He could use a decent night out with his teammates.

“Nope, I told them that we were going to see the new Thor movie,” he says calmly.

Jonathan told James in November, when the second Thor movie came out, that he wanted to see it. And, if Jonathan and James were friends earlier in September when the trailers were all over T.V., Jonathan probably would have brought it up constantly then too.

James looks up at Jonathan, who seems very relaxed, focusing on something else, and suddenly James _wants, needs_ him. His cheeks are slightly pink and his hair tousled, lips soft, expression calm, so beautiful. And Jonathan is taken by surprise when James sloshes forward, causing a tsunami of water to overflow, kissing Jonathan on the lips tenderly, deeply. He grabs the other goalie’s hat off his head and tosses it to the side so he can see his face better. Jonathan’s grin is prominent against James’ mouth and he laughs a bit into his lips.

“So, yes we can see Thor?” Jonathan asks when they break.

James leans their foreheads together, “Yes,” locking their lips again and dragging a wet hand through the other goalie’s dark hair.

When the water gets cold and the two goalies get bored, they get out clumsily, resulting in James slipping and accidentally kicking Jonathan in the nuts. Jonathan let out a cry of sheer pain before he flopped over the side of the tub and onto the wet bathroom floor, face glowing bright red. James apologized profusely, but Jonathan was still moaning in agony even after he pulled himself onto all fours.

When they get to the theatre, Jonathan makes James pay for everything, reasoning that it was the least Reims could do for kicking him in the manhood. During the movie, Jonathan eats most of the popcorn and swings his arm across the back of Reims’ seat comfortably. James is so close to him that he can smell the faint scent of cologne and mints, another reason to get even closer. After the movie, the two goalies walk side by side down the lamp lit Detroit streets. Bernie talks about Thor and his favorite fighting scenes. When Bernier smiles as he talks, James’ chest tightens, watching the other goalie’s eyes brighten and hear the rise and fall of his voice. Cautiously, Reims reaches his arm out to rest on Bernie’s hip as they walk. Part of him fights it, telling him to keep his hands shoved deep in his pockets and mind his own, but the stronger part of him whispers _go ahead buddy, it’s all yours_. Tentatively, he brings his hand to rest on his hip, bringing him closer ever so slightly.

This causes a hitch in the conversation, as Bernier grins at the contact, stopping the walking and hugging James to his chest thoughtfully. They stand there, stuck to each other in the freezing Michigan air in the dark. Bernie’s cheek is against his own and James can feel his ears getting all hot and embarrassed. The worst part is when Jonathan holds James out at arms length, still smiling, eyes squinting, just like the first day that James met him. But this time, James doesn’t hate his toothy bright grin or his squinty eyes or his tousled hair or even his scratchy stubble. It could just be the lighting, but this time around, James loves it and can’t get enough of it.


	25. Seduce Me

Today is the day. Today is the day that everyone, fans and players alike, has been waiting for. James wakes up and immediately dreads today. He dreads how he won’t be getting in between the pipes for a game that was once called his. And so there is only one thing to do, and that is sulk. All morning he drags himself through his daily routine, irritable more than anything.

But Jonathan, he is the complete opposite, as always. When Jonathan wakes up and finds James next to him, he presses himself against the other unwilling goalie’s back, despite Reims squirming to get away. He presses kisses up his shoulder blades and neck and James only relaxes a little before continuing to writhe. He’s angry and doesn’t feel like being passionate or contained. Jonathan has a good hold on him and Reims knows it too, so he just accepts the kisses and waits for Jonathan to release him. Bernie does release him, only to assume a new position on top of Reims, legs on either side, sitting upright.

Jonathan is in that mood, probably because they haven’t fucked since that time in his car and he’s just so excited for the Classic. But James can feel the excitement running through his starter’s veins and it doesn’t transfer over to him. Even when Jonathan grinds down hard on his crotch, he refuses to make a sound. Bernie leans down to lock their lips, but James dodges this and pushes Jonathan away.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t do this right now,” Reims doesn’t feel bad when he says this and he scoots himself from under Bernie, walking to the bathroom to pee.

Throughout his morning routine, James finds Jonathan making several more attempts to get in his pants.

As he stands at his suitcase searching for a dress shirt, Jonathan’s presence can be felt behind him. An undershirt-covered chest brushes against James’ exposed back, sending slight chills. Bernier places his chin on Reims’ shoulder, watching as James sifts through various shirts.

“I like the blue one on you with the white tie,” the other goalie whispers, dipping a finger beneath the waistband of Reims’ boxers.

But, Jonathan doesn’t delve, instead, he traces the cold finger along his hipbone.

“Stop trying to seduce me,” James replies, getting some space and pulling on a dress shirt.

“Is that what I’m doing?” Jonathan says coyly, fingers going to help James button up his shirt.

“You know damn well what you’re doing,” James shoves Bernie’s hands away and does them himself.

Jonathan just shrugs it off and goes to sit on James’ bed, turning on the T.V. At some point during the trip, James’ bed no longer was his bed, it became the watching T.V. bed and Jonathan’s bed was no longer Jonathan’s bed, it became the sleeping bed.

About twenty minutes later, James makes his way to the bathroom as Jonathan is exiting. The two stand face to face, Bernie blocking the entrance with his body. Immediately, his hands move to James’ lower back, bringing him close.

“Move out of the way,” James says as Jonathan’s face grows increasingly close to his.

“Bernier just grins, pressing their lips together. His teeth sink into Reims’ lip every once and a while, refusing to break away. When Jonathan’s hands travel to Reims’ ass and squeeze, James pulls back, annoyed, telling himself he can wait to occupy the bathroom.

He lies back onto the pillows and changes the channel on the T.V., shutting his eyes, listening to the quiet shuffling of Bernie as he gets ready. Jonathan is so unorthodox about everything. One day he’ll wear a bowtie and a button down and the next a vest. He does his own thing, doesn’t care what other people think and James wonders why he can’t be like that. Why he has to pick apart every little mistake, every goal. And it slowly, but surely, tears him apart at the seams. When Jonathan just brushes things off so easily, it hurts because it makes him think sometimes, If Jonathan can forget so fluidly, Jonathan could leave James so effortlessly and not feel a thing and it would be James to feel all the pain.

When Jonathan sits down on the edge of the bed near James, cupping his face with his hand, James doesn’t move. He doesn’t growl or roll his eyes or push Jonathan away. Instead, he opens his eyes slowly, meeting his. Bernier is so needy, chewing on the inside of his cheek. When Jonathan crawls on top of Reims, there is, once again, no objection.

Bernier undoes the buttons on James’ shirt, then attacks his collarbone with a messy clash of tongue and teeth, a moan emitting from James. Bernie tears himself away, undoing the buttons on the front of James’ pants, sucking on his hipbone. James lets him go further, pulling off his boxers then taking James in his mouth.

Startled, James moans loudly, throwing his head back and hitting it on the headboard, cussing loudly. Jonathan doesn’t even look up, taking James’ dick deeper in his throat, kissing and scraping his teeth along the shaft. Jonathan knows what he’s doing, he knows exactly when to pull off and use his hands and exactly how to push James over the edge. Reims’ breath catches in his lungs as he looks down at Bernier, looking up at him. He doesn’t last long after that. His breathing gets heavy and he can feel his body tense up, coming onto Bernier’s face. James doesn’t remember much after that; only that Jonathan curled up behind him after he wiped his face clean with James’ dress shirt, breathing quietly as he fell asleep against him.


	26. The Sun and the Moon

Jonathan opens his eyes smoothly, glancing around the room slowly. James is still asleep on his chest so he can’t get up. On any other day, Jonathan would have most certainly sat up abruptly and slid out of bed to wake Reims up, but he feels bad for the other goalie. Everyone thought that this game would be his, and when Jonathan takes the ice today, everyone will know that this is the turning point: this is the game that shows that James Reimer is no longer the starter.

Jonathan looks down at the other goalie, completely knocked out, how peaceful he looks. Tentatively, he reaches his hand out and runs it across his hair gently, watching as he shifts ever so slightly under his touch. Bernier smiles softly to himself. James doesn’t let Jonathan do these things when he’s awake. He’s so hesitant around Jonathan, doesn’t want to be touched or held, so Jonathan cherishes the time he has when Reims is out cold. He loves to pet through his hair and run his thumb along his cheek, and even if Reims fights this affection when he’s awake, he has no control over it when he’s asleep, absent-mindedly leaning into the gentleness.

Bernie is the moon and Reims is the sun, complete opposites, fighting for the same position in the sky. But without the moon, the sun would be lost, shining for no reason except to shine for others, not even himself. And without the sun, the moon would feel dark loneliness all around him, performing for no one else, only himself. But together, the sun plays for the moon and the moon plays for the sun, balancing out the darkness and the light perfectly.

James pulls himself from his sleep, eyes lazily staring off to the side. Jonathan moves his hand down to Reims’ hip for security. Like this they stay, Jonathan watching James and James not watching Jonathan. It’s so quiet. But he thinks it’s better quiet than the two of them yelling at each other, beating each other up to get their points across.

When James does get up, he goes over to pick up his dress shirt off the floor, glaring annoyed at Bernier.

“You wiped your face with my shirt?” He hisses, annoyed.

Jonathan shrugs, “Guess you’ll just have to wear the blue one with the white tie.”

James balls up the dirty shirt and throws it to Bernier, going over to his suitcase and picking out the blue button up.

 

Jonathan’s face hurts all over. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s been this cold. In LA, it was hot year round and he didn’t have one heavy jacket in his closet. He grew up in Quebec, but it seems he has forgotten the cold until now. The air feels too dry to breathe in and he doesn’t want to keep his eyes open for too long because they might freeze over. He dares not lick his chapped lips or icicles may form. And it’s only warm ups. He’d already tried sticking his hands down the back of his pants to regain some feeling, but he can’t keep his hands down there the whole game.

The puck is about to drop and Jonathan feels nervous for the first time this season. But it only lasts a moment because he pushes the feeling aside. Snow falls gently around him, some flakes making their way through his cage and melting on his face. He looks over and spots James on the bench, face tucked into his jersey, only the top of his hat showing. The crowd roars all around him in anticipation as the puck drops. The Wings come out hard, forcing Jonathan to make some saves early in the first. He can’t maneuver well on this sheet of ice with all the fallen snow, the surface makes it feel like it’s the end of the period and ready to be zambonied even when they’re only three minutes in. It’s hard to move and see through the snow and the wind. Jimmy Howard is probably feeling the worst of it since the wind is blowing toward him, against Bernier’s back, and the snowflakes are probably stabbing him in the face while he’s trying to play. Jonathan knows how this feels. He took Howie’s net yesterday during practice and he could hardly keep his eyes open long enough to see the puck. At every commercial break, a snow crew comes onto the ice and shovels all the fallen flakes.

Jonathan makes some good saves and Howard makes some good saves and neither of the teams score. It seems the goalies are stealing the show. Generally it’s Bernier outplaying the other goalie, but Howie is more experienced and is fresh off an injury, ready to play, fueled to do better. The Leafs come close to falling on him a couple of times and Jonathan wonders what a reinjury would feel like in front of the largest crowd at a hockey game in history.

The period dwindles down and Jonathan gets off the ice with his team. He tears off his upper half and lets his body soak in the heat of the locker room. Everyone looks a mess and it’s only the first period. Next to him, James shivers under his gear. He refuses to take it off, stating that he’ll be colder without it.

Bernier runs numb hands through his hair. It’s already sticking up all over the place because of his helmet, so he doesn’t find any use in trying to matte it back down. He can feel how red his cheeks are from the wind. Carlyle comes in and talks about some of the things they need to work on, but Jonathan is more interested in his close to smearing eye black than curling on the forecheck.

The boys line up to get back on the ice for the second period and he notices James shuffling to the back of the line. He tugs on his jersey, motioning for him to follow him to the front of the line. The backup normally stands to the back, pretending that they’re not there. Backing up is like being a healthy scratch except you get to dress and take shots in warmups. James hesitates.

“You’re not a backup,” is all Bernier says.

He guesses that Reims believes this too and follows Bernie to the front of the line, tugging his hat on over his ears. Together, Bernier and Reimer, the moon and the sun, lead the Leafs out for the second period.

 

The Leafs aren’t doing much to help Bernie. He’s standing on his head in the second, making complex saves, diving for rebounds, aggressively playing the puck and his teammates give him nothing in return. The second period is long, much longer than the first, as it normally is. The atmosphere is slowing him down, all the snow and wind that Howard felt in the first is flinging full force in the second. The flakes are coming down quicker and the snow shovelers are seen more frequently. The arena is so massive when you look up; all you can see is people, a mix of red and blue, all around everywhere looking back down at you.

With six minutes left in the second, Zetterberg and Alfredsson make a break for a two on one down the ice. Jonathan gets good depth above his crease. _I’ve got this._ A Leaf is back checking hard to get Alfredsson but Zetterberg makes a quick pass passed the defenseman and far out from the backchecker. It gets right to Alfredsson’s stick and he tips it past Bernier’s glove. The crowd erupts. It sounds like a massive drum by the amount of people yelling and cheering. Imagine the voices of 107,000 people yelling out to your mistake. It feels awful. Because they’re not cheering for him to succeed, they’re cheering because he fucked up. He doesn’t let it get to him.

With a minute left, the Leafs finally get a quality chance. But, when trying to crash the net, his teammates end up crushing Howard and knocking the net off. Bernier holds his breath. But Howie gets up fine, his knee clearly healed strong. Two face offs later, Phanuf takes a solid shot from the point and JVR gets the rebound, trying to tuck it into the open net but Howard is already there. The whistle is blown and Jonathan checks the clock. Only forty seconds left in the second. The Leafs win the face off in the Detroit end and it’s Phanuf again, passing it to Kessel who gets it to the net. Howie makes the save and it’s JVR against two Wings, getting the rebound and scoring fivehole on a recovering Howard. From Bernier’s end it looks like Howard just gave up, didn’t feel like making another save or butterflying again. As the crowd cheers, Bernie thinks to himself _and that’s the difference between two elite goaltenders. One has more fight than the other._

The Leafs return to the locker room, the score 1-1 after two periods of play.

 

The Leafs get on the ice for the third period and the freshly cleaned ice is already blanketed with a fresh layer of snow. Bernier crouches in his net, face towards the ice, focusing, awaiting puck drop. Several sneaky snowflakes find their way between the gap where the back of his helmet and his chest protector don’t meet, hitting his hot skin and melting instantly in a cold wet mess.

He waits a small while like this, just focusing, until he realizes they haven’t dropped the puck. There seems to be some misunderstanding about the weather and disadvantages. So, while things are settled, the players stand in the cold, their bodies getting stiff.

Jonathan begins to lose focus. He tries to breathe easily and think temperate thoughts, but he starts to have trouble, and of course it always leads to one person. He thinks of Jonathan Quick. He thinks of the time that Bernier started a game against the Wild. He remembers how confident he felt and how he made some big saves. Early in the second period, he let in two soft goals; one after the other and Darryl Sutter pulled him and put Quick in. As he skated by the other goalie, Quickie grinned at him. The Kings ended up winning the game, Quick with a shutout. Afterwards, Jonathan didn’t go to the bar, he went straight up to the room, tucking himself far down under the covers and concealing himself. He can’t remember what time Quick came in the room and tucked himself in behind him, he only remembers waking up and switching beds and in the morning, rolling over without Quick by his side.

Between commercial breaks during games, Quickie would come over to the bench and talk to Bernie, giving him tips.

“See what I did on that last play Bernie? I kept my stick down when I slid.”

“When they’re screening you in front, make sure you see the shot release, that’s all you need to make the save, like that one a couple minutes ago against Kane.”

“Always check to see a backdoor pass before the play develops, that’s how I made that last save.”

Jonathan hated when he did this. He hated how Quickie grinned when he talked.

After every game, Jonathan would go over to the goalie and give him a hug. Quick would hold onto him a little longer than he would the rest of their teammates, touching his helmet to his forehead ever so lightly. And when Jonathan played, Quick would race up to Bernier and hug him and tell him how proud he was of him.

As the players on the ice line up at center ice, Jonathan forces himself back into the game. He clenches his eyes shut and opens them back up but Bernier can’t shake Quick and his tousled hair after getting out of bed, his quiet voice in his ear, his shy smile in post-game interviews. Then he remembers James. How James always listens to country music on the bus. How James always looks for tea at hotels. He thinks about the story he heard from Phanuf when he slept in his room that one night.

Dion said that last year after one of the games in Boston in the playoffs, the Leafs were due to fly home the next afternoon around 1:00. The team was dead tired and everyone had a buddy so they wouldn’t get lost in the airport. James’ buddy was Jonas Gustavsson. Gustavsson had wondered off to get a coffee and James waited at some random gate for him to come back and eventually fell asleep. Gustavsson forgot about Reims and went back to their gate, after he got his coffee, on the other side of the airport. When James woke up, he was confused and upset and couldn’t find the gate and had to ask a security guard to help him. Now, while all this was happening, everyone boarded the plane and it had begun down the runway. They literally had to stop the plane and turn it around so he could get on.

James blamed it on Jonas and Jonas blamed it on the fact that he doesn’t understand English well.

Jonathan heard that Gustavsson was traded to the Wings after last season. He looked over to the bench, but noticed it was some rookie, wrapped in a blanket over his gear.

The third period begins and it’s the Leafs who strike first, four minutes in off the faceoff. The Leafs win it back to the D at the point. Gunnarsson crosses it with Dion who rips an unexpected shot and Bozak tips it in front passed Howard. The goal goes under review briefly, but it is undoubtedly a good goal. He looks down the ice at Howard, hunched over in his crease. He wonders if Howard is friends with Quick. They’re both on the Olympic team roster anyway.

The Leafs lead 2-1 throughout the majority of the third. It gets really competitive as time slowly runs out. After each save, the crowd gets louder and more anxious. After each tousle in front of the net and hit into the boards, the game gets closer. The Wings spend a large chunk of time in the Leafs end and Jonathan can feel the strength draining out of him. Every snowflake weighs and slows him down a little more. Each commercial break he cherishes, receiving time to catch his breath. But, with five minutes left in the third, Smith sends a pass out from behind the net and it’s Abdelkader to tip it passed in tight. It’s now 2-2 and the cheers from the crowd are deafening.

Overtime does nothing, as usual, and the game goes into a shootout. Jonathan dreads shootouts. He can never get the hang of them. In practice, he always watches James during shootout games and mimics his movements in his head. But, when he gets in the net himself, he fucks up and gets scored on with one quick move.

As Daniel Alfredsson comes down the ice on Jonathan, he tries to mimic James. Alfredsson misses the net. JVR is chosen for the Leafs and Howard makes the save easily. The Wings put Pavel Datsyuk on the ice who goes to his backhand and roofs it on Bernier. Lupul comes in against Howard and rips one fivehole. Maybe Howard’s knees aren’t fully healed after all. The next shot, Bernier makes the save, giving the Leafs the chance to win it. And Bozak does. He goes blocker side low and the fans are ecstatic, their voices carrying across the arena. The Leafs have won the Winter Classic. Jonathan dwindles long enough to hear his name announced as the first star of the game.

The locker room is rambunctious, the guys patting each other on the back and grinning. They talk about places to eat after and most of them say they’re spending time with their families that came to watch.

Jonathan stays quiet through all of this, even when James hugs him close and tells him, “I couldn’t have done that any better myself.”

 

Afterward, some of the guys choose to fly home to Toronto, but the majority stay in Detroit. Jonathan gives James the Sudafed before they get on the plane now, so the pain doesn’t start up at all. James rests his head on Bernie’s shoulder, listening to music quietly to himself as Jonathan reads his magazine. James gets up about halfway through the flight to use the restroom. Jonathan watches as he walks, deciding whether or not to follow him.

Quickly, so none of his teammates will notice, Jonathan unbuckles his seatbelt and quietly navigates to the back of the plane. James is opening the door to the bathroom when Jonathan comes up behind him and pulls him in. He truly underestimated how small a space they have.

“The fuck are you doing?” James asks, surprised.

James is being extremely loud, so Jonathan quiets him with his own mouth. James’ hands run up and down Bernier’s thighs and to his belt, unfastening it quickly. Jonathan moves his own hands to Reims’ ass, bringing their crotches together. Reims moans loudly and Jonathan bites down hard. Their teammates can’t hear them and with James loudly groaning, they’ll get caught easily.

Bernier shoves James’ pants and boxers to the floor quickly, pulling out his own dick and stroking it a couple times. When Jonathan offers his fingers for James to suck so he can prep him, James declines.

“There’s no time for that,” James whispers.

Bernier positions James with his back against the wall. He stays upright by holding onto Reims’ ass and James slinging his arms around Bernier’s shoulder. Slowly, Jonathan presses into James, who stifles a moan by biting down into the thick of Jonathan’s shoulder. Bernier pounds fast and deep into James, who is having a hard time keeping quiet. When Jonathan wraps a hand around James’ dick, he hisses into the crevice of Bernier’s neck, sending chills down his back. When James comes, he buries his face into Jonathan’s shoulder, moaning out Jonathan’s name and Bernier is coming moments later.

Quickly, they clean themselves up and return to their seats one by one, casually and unnoticed by their teammates. When they get back to their seats, Jonathan shuts his magazine and tucks it into the seatback pocket and James turns off his music and the sun and the moon fall asleep on each other, Detroit miles behind them.

 


	27. I Admire and Love You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dude... This chapter is kind of deep....

James comes over more now. He always knocks even though Jonathan leaves the door open most of the time. Jonathan doesn’t seem to mind, he always runs to the door to let him in as soon as possible. Some days, James thinks Bernier waits by the door, waiting for James to come. He swings the door open roughly and pulls James in for a tight hug, always.

Reims loves it. How quickly it all unfolds at once. How he can be standing in the hallway one minute and the next, his face burrowed into the shoulder of Bernier’s shirt, a hand bracing his back lightly.

Bernier’s apartment, in James’ opinion, is better than his own. He doesn’t like being alone in his home, he doesn’t like the sound of his own feet as they shuffle across the floor or the quiet stillness when the neighbors aren’t home. But most of all, he hates how he thinks about April, when Jonathan’s not there to occupy him. So James must keep himself busy somehow.

 

The Leafs arrive in D.C. after their 1-6 loss in Carolina. James wakes up from a long restless sleep in the morning in the hotel bed, Bernie still pressed against him in a tangle of sheets. He distances himself from Jonathan, who is incredibly warm. Bernier doesn’t seem to notice and mumbles something unintelligible into the pillow. Reims pulls on some clothes and his shoes and decides to get some Starbucks to bleach out the loss from last night.

Outside it’s incredibly cold. Almost as cold as Toronto but not as windy. With numb fingers, James opens the door back into the hotel, cup of tea in the other hand. James doesn’t feel like facing Bernier. Why should he go back to the room anyway? It’s not like they’d do anything. Jonathan would probably interrupt his reading or watch T.V. until game time. So, James stays in the lobby at a little corner table watching T.V. alone.

That is until _someone_ decides to join him. Clearly, he doesn’t want to be joined. Annoyed, he turns and glares, but soon realizes his mistake.

“Oh, sorry I thought you were Jonathan,” James apologizes.

“Well, technically I am,” Quick laughs a little, smiling.

James feels uncomfortable around him. He knows how much Bernie doesn’t like Quick, but he can’t fully understand why. James shifts in his seat, messing with the lid on his tea. The table is silent.

“So, you guys play the Caps tonight?” Quick begins.

James is having none of it, “Why are you here?”

Quick grins and leans back in his chair “We had a game in Florida yesterday and I thought I’d pop in real quick, catch a tour of the monuments and then fly up to New York for a game.”

James just stares at him, not saying anything. He’s not really getting any bad vibes from him, so he gives the guy a chance.

“I, uh, heard you’re playing for the Olympic Team,” James says awkwardly.

Quick brightens at the conversation. They talk for about five minutes. Quick is so smooth with his words, so laid back, and James can see a little of Jonathan in the King’s goalie. James barely notices how close Quick has come to him, practically leaning across the table.

His voice is so relaxed and calming as they leave his mouth and pretty soon, James is melting against Quickie’s lips as they’re pressing against his. Quick is very gentle with him, a soft hand against his cheek and the other on his chin, tipping it up at an angle. James’ ears are getting hot and the blush spreads across his cheeks. Quick breaks the kiss, for they are out in the open in the lobby and someone could see them. James smiles shyly. How could Jonathan dislike Quick so much? He’s a pretty cool guy for the most part.

Quick grins and pats Reims on the thigh as he gets up to leave, saying a cheerful goodbye.

James is still beet red when he pushes open the door to the hotel room, finding Jonathan sitting at the little round table next to the window, reading James’ book. Slowly, the color drains from his cheeks and he strides in and comes up behind Jonathan, lips on his neck.

But, this time it’s Jonathan who’s not in the mood, “Not right now, Reims.”

James bites his earlobe playfully.

“I’m reading right now, maybe later,” Jonathan says, eyes still trained on the words.

His lips travel across his cheek, but Bernier doesn’t react.

“I thought you didn’t like to read,” James says, observing the words on the page over the other goalie's shoulder.

“I don’t consider _Pride and Prejudice_ reading, it’s more of a journey,” Bernier says, turning the page.

“Wow, so deep,” James replies, pulling up a chair next to him, resting his head on the table.

James starts talking again about the characters and the plot, but Jonathan is more focused on reading than the conversation.

It’s quiet again for a little while until James lifts his head from the table a little bit, “Can you read it aloud?”

Jonathan puts the book down for a moment and grins at him. He reads pretty well, stumbling on a couple of the big words, but James doesn’t care. He loves the sound of his voice filling the silence of the hotel room.

Jonathan gets tuckered out after a while and tosses the book on the bed and puts his head down on the table with James. They both don’t want to get up and go to the bed, so like this they stay, even if it will hurt their backs and necks later.

“Mr. Darcy is my favorite,” James mumbles into the table, looking off to the side with tired eyes. The game against Carolina was difficult and he didn’t get much sleep the night before, fighting sleep gets harder as the day wares on, as always.

“Hmmm?” Jonathan’s dark eyes meet his.

“I love how he is such a dickhead sometimes, even when he doesn’t mean to be, it’s great,” James says softly, smiling against the table.

Jonathan just nods lazily with compliance.

“Kind of like you,” James grins.

Jonathan shakes his head at the dark compliment and presses his face harder against the table. Minutes pass and neither of them say anything, as they’re both close to passing out.

Quietly and abruptly, Jonathan lifts his head from the table and grabs the book once again, flipping through it. He skims the pages briefly for a few moments until he finds the right page.

Carefully, Bernie reads aloud the words to Reims, the words of Mr. Darcy professing his love, “’In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’”

James opens his eyes and stares up at Jonathan grinning back at him, eyes squinting. Once again, his face gets hot and red and even hotter and redder when Bernie leans down and kisses his cheek. Bernie presses their foreheads together, and James dozes off like this. Jonathan struggles to stay awake, for he knows they have to leave in twenty minutes and if he falls asleep, they’ll both be late. He’d rather let Reims sleep and be tired himself than let them both be tardy.

On the bus to the Verizon Center, James rests his head on Bernier’s shoulder, half awake. James assumes he won’t be playing after his dreadful performance against the Canes. He saw 36 shots and let six in, but he thought they were pretty good shots. It was another one of those games when James did a lot of what he could but he just couldn’t make all the saves. I mean he doesn’t feel as bad as he normally does because Jonathan let in four goals on 24 shots against the Islanders just days before.

When they get to the rink, James goes straight to the locker room and decides to do little menial tasks that don’t require much energy instead of his regular routine. He relaces his skates, even though he relaced them before leaving Toronto on Tuesday. He readjusts his helmet several times, not changing much each time and tapes his two sticks very slowly. After he gets done with all this, he gets dressed _extremely_ slowly. Jonathan is still nowhere to be found, but this is normal, he likes to be alone sometimes before games.

As he predicted, Jonathan starts the game. It could be that James is just tired, but it seems like everything is slower than usual. Like everybody is just as tired as he is, the fans, the coaches, the players, the refs, and everyone is moving at a sleepy pace. The voices are incredibly loud. Carlyle’s voice rises above all and the fans’ cheers sound like the roars of lions. He feels dizzy and lightheaded. He can’t remember if he showered after the game last night or not and his skin feels sticky and damp.

Bernie and the Washington goalie, Neuvirth keep the game tied at zero in the first. James finds himself not paying attention, looking up high into the rafters, noticing that the Caps don’t have any Stanley Cup banners. James knows how it feels not to have won a Stanley Cup, and at this moment, looking out across the ice and watching his team playing, he wonders if he’ll ever not know how it feels.

In the second period, play is pretty much the same, except when Alex Ovechkin goes top shelf on Bernie. The fans erupt and the goal horn sounds and James is deafened by the noise. He is relieved when JVR ties it up on the power play a couple minutes later and the Leafs can exit the second period with a tie once again.

In the locker room Carlyle talks about coming out strong early in the third and getting a quick goal and fending off the lead, something the Leafs always struggle with. During all this, James gets out of focus and begins to think about Quick. About his soft voice and endearing smile and his soft lips against his. 

Kessel abides by Carlyle’s orders and less than a minute into the third, he scores top shelf shortside on Neuvirth, giving the Leafs the 2-1 advantage. But, as always, they can’t keep the lead and the Caps make a good backdoor pass and tie it 2-2 just minutes after Kessel’s goal.

The arena is in an uproar and Jonathan looks quite disappointed with himself at this goal. Between water breaks Jonathan comes over to the bench. He stands next to James a little ways from the boards, opening his mouth as though he wants to say something then averts his eyes and shuts his mouth, skating away flustered. His face is red at the cheeks, as though he’s embarrassed, not red like he’s out of breath.

James watches Jonathan while he’s in the net after that. Between whistles he skates around the zone uncomfortably, shaking his head then returning to his crease only to decide otherwise and skate back out into the zone. Jonathan usually stays in his crease most of the time, bent over his pads, his face looking down the ice as though challenging the other goalie, as though he’s saying in that sarcastic tone of his: _“Hey fucker. Fight me. I dare you. Come over here, I’m ready. You know I’m playing better than you right now. Everyone knows it. I bet you feel awful right now don’t you?”_ That’s probably why he got in that fight with Miller months ago.

But Bernier doesn’t do this to Neuvirth. When he’s in the net, he stares down at the ice in front of the crease shaking his head very uneasily. James’ stomach is churning as he watches him.

A little more than halfway through the third, the Caps score, making it 2-3. It’s a bad fivehole goal and Bernier is deep in his crease, caught off guard by the shot, and out of position. Jonathan is distraught. He shakes his head over and over again. When Carlyle pulls him and puts an extra attacker on, he keeps a bit of a distance from James on the bench. Reims catches him staring a couple of times, looking away immediately when caught. His face is flushed and he looks quite rattled.

The final horn sounds and Jonathan turns and storms down the tunnel. He’s half undressed when James sits down next to him. He is fidgeting a lot, running his hands through his sweat-soaked hair. Carlyle comes in briefly to lecture about their fourth-straight loss, but no one is really listening. Everyone is sort of staring off to the side, not wanting to own up to their mistakes, all while James is watching Jonathan squirm. His face looks broken and distressed and utterly upset. Reims hasn’t seen Jonathan so invested in his feelings like this before and it’s terrifying. It’s always James who’s troubled and Jonathan is there to hold him steady, but now it’s Jonathan broken apart and James doesn’t know if he can be strong for him when he isn’t okay himself.

Jonathan gets undressed extremely fast and exits the locker room while everyone else showers. James can’t find Jonathan on the bus, even though he searches every seat. He thought he found him bundled up in the back, wrapped up in a dark-colored hoodie, but it was just Dion run down from the game.

James lingers in the lobby a little longer than usual. He makes a cup of green tea and watches as the people walk by. Jonathan doesn’t. James just decides to go back to the room.

The hotel was booked when the Leafs arrived, so everyone’s rooms are on different floors. When James approaches their room on the fifth floor and pulls out the keycard, he hears muffled yelling from inside. It’s Jonathan’s voice, loud and angry, angrier than he’s ever heard him before. James doesn’t like it. He unlocks the door and enters without hesitation.

The argument between Quick and Bernier pauses when Jonathan spots Reimer. Quick turns around and notices him too, smirking.

“And you think that he didn’t enjoy it?” Quick says snidely, motioning to Reims.

 _“Of course he didn’t you prick,”_ Jonathan hisses wildly.

“Ask him yourself, I dare you,” Quick is so proud and confident when he says this.

James can feel his face getting hot and red fast and Jonathan sees this, taking it as an answer to his question. Bernier’s face grows very serious, no longer angry, but unsettled. He is just staring at James forlornly from across the room, not moving a muscle.

 _“Exactly,”_ Quick says as he turns and walks out, shoulder brushing James’ as he exits.

And then there were two. Neither speak. Neither move. James doesn’t want to breath. He doesn’t want to explain or even deny. He knows what he’s done. He didn’t think Jonathan would care this much.

“Why did you do it?” Jonathan whispers.

James just stares at the floor. He doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t know what to say.

“WHY DID YOU DO IT?” Jonathan yells, angry.

James doesn’t dare to respond. He instead looks around the room. The chairs they were sitting in earlier this morning as Jonathan read to him are turned over. The lamp on the nightstand is shattered in pieces on the floor and James notices Bernier's bleeding hand.

“ANSWER ME,” Bernie pleads for an answer.

“I-I just… He just came over and we talked and he just- it just happened. I didn’t know- I didn’t think you’d care,” James stutters out.

“YOU DIDN’T THINK I’D CARE?” Jonathan shouts.

“IT’S QUICK. OF COURSE I CARE!” Jonathan swipes a frustrated hand through his hair and turns away from James toward the window. This is the first time he’s stood still all evening.

“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” James says plainly.

“THAT BIG OF A DEAL? ARE YOU KIDDING ME JAMES?” Bernier says quickly. He never calls him James. And Reims is terrified. He suddenly feels sick. Worse than he did on the bench. His knees feel weak and he’s suddenly sweating a lot.

Jonathan is pacing now. He’s making low noises of resentment deep in his throat.

“I’m sorry, I was tired and it happened so fast,” James whispers.

Jonathan doesn't respond to this. He doesn't even spare him a glance. All James can feel now is heavy guilt.

Jonathan is muttering to himself now, as he goes about his side of the room fixing the furniture.

“I can’t believe I said I loved you,” Jonathan says to himself.

“You were quoting a book,” James spits back irately.

“Was I? _Was I, really James?”_ Jonathan looks up from where he is picking up a throw pillow, face a bit amused. And at this moment, James knows how much Bernier is hurting.

They don’t speak after that. Every now and then James can pick up on some of the things he’s saying to himself, but the majority of it is cussing and French. James pulls off his clothing slowly, sitting on the edge of his bed, facing the wall, then gets into bed alone. Jonathan strides to the bathroom still muttering angrily and slams the door loudly. Reims can hear loud shuffling from the other room and the sink water running followed by a loud “FUCK”.

James gets up and jogs to the bathroom. The air is cold against his bare skin. He pulls open the door and Jonathan doesn’t object when Reims assists him in bandaging up his cut, eyes on him the entire time. He still looks agitated but doesn’t say a word. James wraps the wound in gauze and medical tapes the end.

“That should be good until tomorrow,” Reims says.

Jonathan looks at him with dark, red-rimmed eyes, “It still hurts.”

“I can fix that,” Reims says, pressing a delicate kiss to the bandage.

“My head hurts too,” Bernier says venomously.

“I can fix that too,” he says, kissing him sweetly on the forehead, Bernier allowing him.

“I’m still bothered,” Jonathan says, voice strained a little.

“I can fix that,” James whispers, pressing his lips against his chest through Bernier’s shirt, right over where his heart would be.

Jonathan looks at James with so much disappointment. Bernier knows how much James is trying to fix this, but it's just not enough. He looks so tired and worn out. To this affection, Jonathan controls himself and nods a little to James sadly before shutting off the light to the bathroom and making his way to his own bed. James follows him out and watches as Bernier gets in his own bed, the one closest to the window, facing away from James. Jonathan normally closes the shades before bed, hating how James always keeps them open. But tonight, the other goalie doesn’t dare to close them, facing the window and staring out at the dark city below.

 


	28. I'm Sorry

When Jonathan wakes up, the room is completely dark. He blinks to get used to the dimness, glancing around. James is still asleep in the other bed, a leg and arm hanging off the near side, twisted in an odd uncomfortable position. Last night is very vague in his memory, so he decides to get some coffee to help him out.

As he stares at the dark steaming liquid within his cup, he hears Quick’s voice. He hears his footsteps behind him, approaching him as Jonathan stares out at the clean sheet of ice at the Verizon Center. Quick positions a careful hand on his lower back and a knee between his legs, cornering him against the tunnel wall. They’re sort of out in the open but no fans have arrived yet to see the occurrence. An uncontrollable moan escapes his throat as Quickie’s hand travels to Jonathan’s crotch.

He has no idea why or how he’s here. His mind is racing and he’s panting hard. Quick kisses up his neck and Jonathan is whimpering a little, begging him for more of everything. Quick just presses him harder against the wall.

The King’s goalie steps back a moment to observe Jonathan with excited eyes. He grins at his work. Jonathan is thoroughly aroused; face flushed, barely able to catch his breath.

Quick surges forward without warning, licking a thick line up Bernier’s neck. Jonathan’s breath catches in his lungs and his face grows a bright shade of red.

Quick chuckles and grins down at him, face close to his, “Just like Reimer, eh Bernie?”

Jonathan just stares at him, confused.

Quick drags his thumb through his stubble and across Bernie’s hot cheek, kissing the other before he strides off, leaving Jonathan to contemplate his comment.

And Jonathan does. During the game, Quickie’s voice finds its way into his thoughts, making Bernier feel sick. It’s not that bad in the first period or during warmups, he just thinks it has something to do with Reims’ shitty, shitty game against the Hurricanes the night before. But in the second period, it hits him.

He begins to worry, something Jonathan rarely ever does anymore. _What if Quick got with James._ Before this time, Bernier had considered James his own. He is the only one who gets to see James come undone before him, the only one to see James’ eyes glow with want. The very thought of Quick loving James as Jonathan does makes him angry. Quick doesn’t deserve James. No one deserves James except Jonathan. Quick would never treat James right; he’d just use him as he uses Jonathan.

Bernier grows flustered. The Caps come in full force, setting up smart plays and testing the Leaf’s goaltender all while Quick’s words circulate through his mind, tormenting him endlessly. The thought of James loving someone else hurts him. And the thought of that someone being Quick is even worse.

Bernier can’t even look at James anymore. It’s all his fault. He should have controlled himself, he should have said no to Quick, why didn’t he just say no? Unless he wanted him back. After the third goal, Bernie becomes angry. James is an asshole. Bernier isn’t good enough for the high and mighty Reimer. The Leafs lose and Bernie doesn’t care.

Jonathan walks down the street swiftly, eager to get out of the brisk D.C. air and into the hotel. He’s fascinated by the steam rising through the little hole in the top of his lid, appearing in the crisp morning air. He can’t remember what exactly he ordered, Starbucks always makes up ridiculous names for their drinks, but it smells like cinnamon. Martine only made cinnamon coffee for Jonathan, because that’s all he’d drink, even though she liked vanilla herself. When Jonathan came home after long stretches on the road, she would wake up extra early for him and make his cinnamon coffee for when he woke up, leaving it on the pot to keep it warm. Only after Jonathan dragged himself into the kitchen and poured himself a couple cups would Martine make her vanilla coffee, waiting until Jonathan finished his own. Martine was so good to him, so selfless, and Jonathan couldn’t give her the same.

When Bernier enters the lobby, the rest of his teammates are standing around, duffels by their sides, coffees in hand as well. James stands off to the side, watching Jonathan, both their duffels at his feet. He smiles weakly and waves a little.

James offered to carry Bernier’s duffel onto the plane because of his hand but Jonathan said he was fine and he could do it perfectly fine his damn self.

James and Jonathan take their seats in the very back, almost against the wall, away from everyone else and the plane back to Toronto takes off bumpily from the snowy D.C. runway. Bernier glances over at James next to him several times, head pressed against the window. He doesn’t speak to him though. Jonathan forgot to grab a magazine when he was at the hotel and now he’s stuck with nothing to do. He could listen to music, but then that would cut off any opportunity to talk to James. What is he thinking? He doesn’t want to talk to James anyway. Bernier spots Reims’ _Pride and Prejudice_ tucked in to the seatback pocket. He’s not reading it; he’s sleeping, so Jonathan should make good use of it. Quickly, he swipes the book and skims to the page he was reading the day before when James so rudely interrupted him.

After about twenty minutes of silence, James begins to make some quiet whimpering noises. The other goalie puts his head down on the tray table, holding onto his bright red ears. _Fuck. Jonathan forgot to give him the Sudafed._ James probably knew this before they took off, before they even got on the plane. He probably waited for Jonathan to unzip his coat pocket and hand him a little red pill, but he didn’t and James wouldn’t ask, he didn’t want to bother Bernier, and now here he is, suffering in silence. They’re already an hour into the flight, so it wouldn’t be logical to take a pill for the last thirty minutes. James undoubtedly knows this too, and the descent is the worst part.

Jonathan feels bad about this and reluctantly puts up the armrest between them. He curls an arm around Reims and pulls him in close so his head is resting on his shoulder. Then Bernier begins to read to him, petting a gentle hand through his hair out of habit. Jonathan tells himself that this is in no means forgiveness for his own anger, but forgiveness for his forgetfulness. James doesn’t seem to care; he’s very out of it. His eyes are lidded, watching the words on the page, mouth half open and breathing quietly. Every now and then he’ll wince, Jonathan can feel it through his shirt, and a couple times he even burrows his face into Bernier’s chest.

When they land, Jonathan is the one to offer to carry James’ bag, who doesn’t object. The flight completely drained him of any energy he had before. Jonathan drives Reims back to his apartment. James pulls on the door to get out, but Jonathan doesn’t unlock it for him. Reims is too tired for Bernier’s games and he lets out an annoyed sigh, manually unlocking it himself.

“Wait…” Jonathan begins.

James pauses for a moment and Bernier brings his eyes up to meet.

Jonathan pulls James in slowly for a kiss, but when he’s close enough, their foreheads almost touching, he can’t. He leans in a little more, face very close to his, but then draws back. His heart is beating fast in his chest. James glares at him angrily, still watching him as he gets out, grabbing his bag and shutting the door quickly.

He doesn’t watch James leave and he can’t remember how long he stays in the lot sitting in the same spot with the car running. More events from last night run through his head. Jonathan walking back to the hotel after the game in the sleet. The sound of Quick unbolting the door as he entered his room. His body pressed against his, his lips on his neck, and his hands strong on his hips. Jonathan breaking away, remembering his words before the game. Quick tells him all about it. How James wanted him and cried out his name as Quick pounded into him and moaning when he came.

That’s about when Jonathan got angry, putting some distance between them. But Quick kept coming closer. He didn’t want to hit him but he had the terrible urge to. Quick kept talking, taunting him, annoying him and it was driving Bernier mad. He picked up the little round table next to the window and threw it. Quick just looked amused, still grinning.

Jonathan yelled at him to get out but Quickie just stayed put, a truly stupid idea. Quick began talking about how sweet James was and how quiet he was in bed, compared to Jonathan who is very vocal. At this time, Jonathan took a swing at Quick, knocking him just under the jaw. Immediately after, he felt awful about it. Quick rolled a tongue across his teeth, tasting for blood but there was none.

Jonathan slams his hand against the steering wheel. Quick didn’t hit him back. Quick just grinned and controlled himself, closing the space between them. He brought their hips together and Jonathan backed up so fast that he ran into the night table, breaking the lamp and getting glass in his hand and cussing loudly. They yelled more and at some point, James came in and Quick left.

As the freezing rain comes down, Jonathan looks up at James’ apartment, searching for his window. He thinks that if he can’t apologize, he’ll end up at a bar somewhere, looking down the end of a bottle.

So, Jonathan forces himself out into the cold. He hesitates, pacing back and forth, deciding what he should say. Bernier gets back in his car just to thrust himself back into the rain, telling himself to wing it. He jogs into the building where he presses the elevator button, but it takes longer than ten seconds and he opts to take the stairs.

Sprinting up five flights felt like a harmless idea at the time, but taking into account the fact that he’s dripping wet, he realizes now, after slipping several times, that it’s not so intelligent. Without waiting a moment to catch his breath, Jonathan pounds on Reims’ door. From the other side, cussing and shuffling is heard. The door opens and Jonathan opens his mouth to speak immediately but doesn’t know what to say or what he’s doing. So he stands there dripping wet, breathing hard, staring at the other goalie dumbly. Reims is dressed in sweats and a t-shirt and his hair is messy, as though he had just laid down for a nap. He doesn’t say a word, just watches Bernier back.

After a little while, Jonathan finally speaks, “I’m sorry,” is all he can manage. They’re the only words that are running through his head, the only words rising above all the noise and frustration in his mind, followed by another phrase that is just as loud, “I love you.”


	29. The Greatest Victories

James and Jonathan don’t talk about what happened with Quick. Bernier puts it simply that if he doesn’t think about it, then the problem isn’t there and it can’t bother him.

He sure plays like nothing is bothering him, and somehow when Jonathan plays well, James does too, but for every start Reims gets, Bernie gets two. This is no surprise to many since every game that Bernie plays, he gets one of the three stars and lets in three goals or less. Under the solid goaltending duo, Jonathan and James lead the Leafs to six straight victories. They should be doing well on the ice since they’re doing just fine off the ice. The sex is great and spirits are always high; the winning streak is just a bonus.

 

Jonathan gets to the room before James and immediately goes to shut the blinds. He doesn’t want any reminders of the game tonight. He knows how he played, he knows that it’s the second time he’s been pulled in a month, and he knows that he ended their winning streak. Making excuses doesn’t help either, even if he suggests that Reims let in a goal more than him in relief.

Jonathan is sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling off his shoes, when James comes in. He’s smiling. Jonathan doesn’t think this is the right time to be smiling, especially after a game like this, so he pulls the rim of his hat down further over his eyes and continues with his shoes. Reims comes to sit next to him on the edge of the bed, shoulders touching, putting an arm around his waist. Bernier can feel his blue eyes on him. He doesn’t want to be held right now and Reims’ heat radiating onto him makes him shift uncomfortably in his dress shirt.

James helps Jonathan out with the undressing process by starting to unbutton the front of his shirt. Jonathan doesn’t want to do this. He just had a really shitty game, he just wants to sleep and forget.

“I’m sorry I can’t do this, Reims,” Jonathan says, moving the other goalies hands away.

James sits back on the bed, eying Bernier. He brings his feet up and crosses them, still watching Jonathan taking off his socks now.

“I know how it feels,” James says quietly, looking off to the side

Jonathan shakes his head and stands up to face James, undoing his belt.

“Have you ever been booed by your own fans? On home ice?” James asks, eyes meeting Bernier’s.

Jonathan says nothing. He hasn’t.

“Remember I’ve been pulled more than you have this season,” James continues.

“Yea, but not like this,” Jonathan mutters, crawling under the covers.

James observes him with sad eyes. He gets up from the bed, picks up Jonathan’s clothing off the floor, and folds them nicely, placing them back in his suitcase. Then he goes into the bathroom. James doesn’t come out for a while, and no noise can be heard.

Bernier thinks about the game, about the goals. He’s the starter, he’s expected to play so much better than this. It feels like the entire team just collapsed on him. And when Carlyle pulled him? Jonathan was furious. He deserved to at least finish out the second. James didn’t play much better. He let in _four_ goals as opposed to Jonathan’s three.

Jonathan checks the alarm clock; it reads 12:33 AM. James has been gone for almost twenty minutes now. Jonathan stares at the little patterns of squares on the floor, listening for movement. When James does come stumbling into bed, he presses his cold feet against Bernier’s warm hamstrings. He whispers several “my bads” and “I’m sorry” as he shifts, trying to get comfortable. This goes on for at least three minutes. James is making an incredible amount of noise and Jonathan can’t stand it, so to contain the rogue goalie, Bernie wraps his arms around Reims and pulls him close. Only now does James relax.

He breathes out a long, low sigh into Bernie’s collarbone. Jonathan, in return, tucks his head and presses their foreheads together. He can hear James’ heartbeat through the darkness.

“I remember the first time I heard about your trade, about you coming here, I was so angry,” James says, “I didn’t like you and I had never even met you.”

Jonathan listens quietly, watching James’ blue eyes flicker through the dimness.

“And when you got here, I hated you so much. Everyone liked you ‘nd I was nobody,” James whispers.

Jonathan remembers how James acted in the beginning of the season. James always snuck away or stayed a distance from him most times. In conversations, especially with other teammates participating, James would stand off a little to the side and look away, as if fascinated by something across the room. He didn’t really converse with Jonathan one-on-one. Sometimes, Jonathan would be glancing around the room and catch Reims glaring at him, and then he’d look away immediately.

James continues, “And I really didn’t want to share the net with you… like I _really_ didn’t want to fucking share the net. And yet here we are… here I am...”

James is quiet now, keeping his eyes down. Silence consumes the room and Jonathan and James nod off, still closely held to each other.

“Jonathan,” Reims says drowsily after a long, long pause.

“Yea, James,” Bernie yawns out.

“I tried to keep myself away from you ‘nd I tried so hard to hate you, but somehow, you stuck and I wound up right in the middle of it all.”

Jonathan’s breath hitches in his chest. He no longer cares about the Star’s game or getting pulled or even Quick right now. Without hesitation, Bernier presses a firm kiss to the other goalie’s lips, lingering longer than usual, leaving him breathless and grinning.

“And I’m glad I did,” he says at last, tucking himself closer to Bernier who accepts him graciously.

 

The next night, the Leafs play the Jets in Winnipeg. Carlyle gives Reimer the game, telling the media that Reims gets the start since they’re in his hometown. So, James starts, but midway through the second, after letting in four goals, he gets pulled and Bernier goes in. The Leafs still lose, 4-5, and the plane ride home is very silent. Jonathan allows James to rest his head on his shoulder, but they don’t talk. And on the drive to James’ apartment, they don’t talk. James doesn’t invite Jonathan in or say goodbye, he exits silently and disappears into the building, Jonathan watching him all the way in.

Jonathan plays the last two games of the month at the Air Canada Centre, winning both. James stays quiet throughout these games, fading into the background, avoiding the media. Sometimes he avoids Jonathan, just as he did at the beginning of the season, but it’s different this time. It’s not out of hatred for Jonathan, but out of self-disappointment. And every time Jonathan comes close to console the goalie, James edges away and disappears from the room.

 

There’s much talk of the Olympics in the beginning of February. Kessel, JVR, and Kulemin are the three Leafs players chosen to go to Sochi. Neither Jonathan nor James tried out for the Canadian team, so they’ll be enjoying the nice long Olympic break at home.

James isn’t the same after the Winnipeg game. He doesn’t talk much to Bernier, despite Jonathan’s constant conversation starters. On this particular day against Vancouver, Jonathan’s sixth straight start and their last game before the break, Reims pretends like he doesn’t hear the other goalie.

Jonathan comes over between commercial breaks to keep him company. He looks lonely on the bench since none of their teammates or trainers talk to him much. Plus, Jonathan _knows_ they’re going to win and he can afford to get a little out of focus.

“Hey bud, how’re you holdin’ up back there?” Jonathan inquires, leaning over the boards, grinning.

James is sunk back in his gear a little, only his nose and eyes showing. He leans himself against the glass, out of everyone’s way. It’s a terribly sad sight, especially for what a strong goaltender he is, being reduced to tucking himself out of the way.

He doesn’t respond, staring off into space.

“How’s the game so far? Any critiques?” Jonathan urges.

No response. Jonathan is getting a little annoyed now. After all, he did skate all the way over here to say hello and James, once again, isn’t even making an effort.

“Hey, does this water taste funny to you? Can you try it for me?” Jonathan asks squirting his water at Reims to get his attention.

James just glares, sitting up more but still not responding.

Bernier skates back to his crease, irritated. Leafs win 3-1.

That night, Jonathan invites himself over to James’ apartment. Actually, he just follows Reims home and knocks on the door until he gives in. James is silent as he pulls open the door and walks back into the kitchen. Jonathan kicks off his shoes and immediately comes up behind James, giving him a big hug and kissing his cheek. He rocks him back and forth for a little while, telling him how special he is and how perfect he is. James accepts the compliments wordlessly, and after some time, they move to the couch and watch T.V.

Jonathan has wanted to actually watch some of the Olympic games this year. The last Olympics, he didn’t care much, but now, he’s actually played against some of the guys participating. An Olympic men’s slopestyle replay comes on and James watches in silence as Jonathan comments about the skiers. James is growing more and more out of it, leaning on Jonathan completely by the time commercials come on. Bernier doesn’t mind, his legs are cold and James is keeping them toasty warm.

A McDonald’s commercial comes on, showing all these American born Olympians with medals. James sits up for a moment to take off his shirt while Jonathan still has his eyes glued to the screen. Patrick Kane appears, with his metal from the Vancouver Olympics, holding it between his teeth. Written in white letters reads: “The greatest victories are celebrated with a bite”.

Jonathan grins eagerly, “See that, Reims,” he points to the T.V.

James looks up and reads the writing, looking over to Jonathan expectantly. Bernier takes this as a challenge and tugs James close, bringing their hips together and locking their lips. Jonathan has been waiting to touch James like this for so long. Since Reims has been shy, Jonathan hasn’t had the opportunity. James lets out a long hiss of ecstasy as Jonathan grinds down and his crotch hard. This is the first reaction he’s gotten out of him in a week. Bernier wants more of it.

Expertly, Bernie sucks on Reims’ collarbone creating loud, breathy moans from the other goalie. James sounds needy and his eyes are full of an incredible lust. Like this they move, back and forth, until James comes, moaning into Jonathan’s shoulder, and Jonathan following after.

Jonathan collapses on top of Reims, breathing heavily, their skin sticking against each other’s. Lazily, James kisses up Jonathan’s jaw as a silent thank you, still not using his words. Jonathan returns the favor by biting down hard on James’ bottom lip, grinning listlessly and murmuring several satisfying words against his skin, “The greatest victories are celebrated with a bite.”


	30. Love Me With the Lights On

The Olympic break is one of the greatest things to happen this season. James takes it as a gift from God, a second chance for him to get his shit together and bounce back after the break.

Jonathan takes it as two and a half weeks to hang out with James staying up late and sleeping in later, eat bad food, and fuck Reims so hard he’s sore the next day. Since they have no practices or games, James has time to recover and it doesn’t affect his play.

During the break, there is much talk of trades. James keeps the possibility open that he might be traded, and that there is a good chance he will be. This hurts him. He loves playing for the Leafs and can’t imagine a team that he could fit in with more perfectly. This makes Reims cling to Bernier longer, hold him tighter, and love him more than before.

Jonathan doesn’t realize this until about a week into the break. He is sitting at James’ island. The other goalie is still asleep in the next room over; deep under the covers and not to be disturbed by Jonathan who can’t fall back asleep after awake. He yawns and stares into his coffee. It’s incredibly strong and bitter, but James didn’t have any and Jonathan didn’t bring his own, so he had to ask the neighbors who graciously obliged and were honored to provide coffee for the Leafs starting goaltender Jonathan Bernier.

Jonathan begins to think about how last year at this time, he was a back up in L.A., and now he’s starting for the Leafs. He grins to himself. He’s come so far. And a year from now will be so different. They could have a new coach or a new captain. And then it hits him. He could have a new goalie partner. Jonathan has been hearing about James’ trade rumors in the locker room and on the Internet. He chooses to ignore it instead of dealing with the thought of James leaving. He’s heard that people think that James is holding Jonathan back, but they don’t know that he’s the reason why Jonathan can move forward. Each game he plays is played for James.

At this moment, Bernier feels sick. He feels lightheaded and dizzy, like he held his breath for too long. Without hesitation, Bernie erupts out of his chair, skidding across the hardwood floors in his borrowed PJ pants and sprinting to the bedroom. His heartbeat slows as he leans against the doorway, eyes locking on James still undisturbed in his bed. Jonathan wastes no time climbing in next to him.

James stirs a bit, eyes fluttering open lazily. He smiles weakly up at Jonathan who looks at him with wild and wanting eyes. Jonathan doesn’t want James to go. Bernier wraps his arms around Reims, anchoring him, for now, in Toronto.

 

Jonathan’s complaining about James’ coffee situation forces Reims to make a move. The Friday before the end of break James and Jonathan walk to the Safeway down the street. It’s sunny yet cold and Jonathan wont let James hold his hand.

“Stop it man, I’m not kidding my hands get clammy like it’s nobody’s business,” Jonathan puts space between them on the sidewalk after James makes his second attempt of the morning.

“And I kick in my sleep like it’s nobody’s business but I still let you sleep with me,” James grins, slinging an arm around Bernier’s waist loosely.

Jonathan shoves his hands in his pockets, elbowing Reims in the side playfully.

When they get to the store Jonathan takes forever choosing coffee. Reims strolls around the neighboring aisles, waiting impatiently, staring at the labels on the boxes and bottles and bags. Jonathan finally picks out his package and they meet up at the cash register.

James’ stomach drops when he looks up and recognizes the cashier as the one who always makes lame conversation about Bernie. Turning quickly the other way, Reims interests himself in the packages of gum behind him. Jonathan places his item on the belt and James holds his breath as the cashier speaks.

“Good morning sir, do you need a bag today?” She probably hasn’t looked up yet from the checkout screen, but when she does, she’ll be greeted by a special surprise.

James taps Bernie on the shoulder whispering quickly, “I’m, uh, I gotta pee I’ll meet you outside.”

“Dude, c’mon it’ll only be a minute, and do they even have bathrooms in grocery stores?” Bernier holds onto his wrist.

“It’s an emergency, I’ll just meet you by the bench over there,” James says, striding away briskly.

Jonathan is staring at his phone, reading his messages from his mom, when James comes back from the bathroom. Bernier tells him, on the walk back, about the cashier lady and how she recognized him and asked for his autograph. James doesn’t look very interested; he just stares at the cars passing by in the street.

Back in James’ apartment, Bernie brews his coffee and Reims searches for the Men’s USA vs. Canada hockey game. JVR and Phil are playing for the US, but Bernier and Reimer are rooting for Canada to win.

“Hey who do you think is in net for Canada?” James calls over to Jonathan in the kitchen filling up the pot.

“Smith,” Bernier replies grinning.

“No, seriously, the goalie who is actually dressing and playing,” James replies still sifting through the channels. They both know that Mike Smith is the third string goalie for Team Canada, expected to not even dress for any games.

“Final answer: Smith,” Bernier says.

“I bet it’s Luongo,” Reims says finally reaching the right channel, but it’s on a commercial break.

“Lu? C’mon Smith is clearly the better option,” Bernie pulls a packet of popcorn out of the cupboard and starts it up in the microwave.

“Luongo shut out Austria last week,” Reims replies easily.

“But it’s Austria, that’s not even a challenge,” Jonathan grins, pouring the popcorn in a bowl and handing it to the other goalie. Bernier doesn’t like holding things, he’d rather have James do all the holding while he reaches over into his lap and eats.

The game finally comes on, it’s the beginning of the second period and still 0-0, and the announcers talk about the solid goaltending. First they talk about Carey Price for Canada, “not really being tested by the American offense”. The two Leafs goalies joke more about Smith and a bit about Price roping and bull riding in the summer Olympics. Suddenly, Quick is shown in the other end, crouching in his net. The announcers talk about how Quick “has come up with some big stops for the US in the first”. Jonathan grows quiet and James shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

To fix this awkward encounter, Jonathan plants a firm and unexpected kiss against Reims’ reddening cheek. He grins, embarrassed. This may seem like a simple display of affection, but to Jonathan, it was his way of claiming James as his own. The second period begins and the two watch intently. Jonathan now _really_ wants Canada to win and to make Quick feel like a loser. But neither team is scoring and Bernie is growing impatient, grabbing handfuls of popcorn and ungraciously shoving them full force into his mouth, forgetting about his coffee growing cold in the kitchen on the island.

More than halfway through the second, Dallas Stars’ Jamie Benn scores for Canada, taking Jonathan by surprise and excitement, causing him to throw the bowl of popcorn out of joy. James watches, mortified by his explosion, angry with the mess. Jonathan could care less about cleaning up and does so with pleasure, grinning the rest of the day after Canada’s 1-0 victory over the US.

When it’s time to go to bed, Bernie and Reims are too tired to fool around, so they just shuffle to the bedroom, dig down deep under the covers and wait for sleep to come. Their quiet breathing, in-synch, are the only sounds filling the room.

After several moment of silence James whispers to Jonathan, “Why did it never work out with you and Quick?”

Jonathan thinks, at first, not to respond and to pretend to be asleep already. There are plenty of reasons, the biggest one being that Quick split up Martine and Jonathan, but the real question is why Jonathan didn’t break it off before Quick could even get the opportunity to tell her. Quick is such an asshole, such a smug prick, but it turned him on somehow and Jonathan never really objected to any of the things they did. He can’t really say that Quick didn’t love him, because Quick often showed him pure, raw affection. He kissed him deeply and fucked him hard and spoke so sweetly, it’s hard to say that Quickie didn’t love Jonathan.

In 2012 after the Kings won the Cup on home ice, Quickie took Jonathan to the fanciest hotel in L.A. and rented a room for the night. After the two drank their weight in champagne, they had incredible, bed-shaking, sex in the massive hotel bed. Quick, despite the recent activity and having played a game hours before, was wide awake afterwards, petting a hand through Jonathan’s sweat-damp hair, whispering kind words to him. At this point in time, Jonathan did feel loved by Quick.

Jonathan looks into the darkness, searching for James’ lidded eyes staring off to the side.

Quietly, almost unintelligible, Jonathan whispers his response gingerly, “I just needed someone who could love me with the lights on. Like you do.”

James smiles up at Bernier brushing a kiss to his lips and resting his head on Jonathan's chest, drifting off to the sound of his heartbeat soft in his ears.

With James' head light on his chest, Jonathan nods off to the sounds of his soft rhythm of inhales and exhales. He imagines Quick thousands of miles away in a foreign land, pondering over his loss with non-familiar faces when Jonathan is here, right at home with James. And Jonathan grins to himself because for tonight, Jonathan is the winner.


	31. Sweet Caroline

The Olympic break ends February 27th when the Islanders host the Leafs. Jonathan, of course, is starting. The game ends in an OT loss 4-5. Afterwards in the locker room, Carlyle is furious, talking about how “lazy” and “careless” they all were and how they “missed passes” and “miscommunicated” more than any team he’d ever coached before and that Carlyle has coached squirts that have more enthusiasm. Everyone is quiet as he walks out, chucking his clipboard in the trash on his way. Jonathan could care less, unlacing his skates and tossing them into his bag. It doesn’t matter whether he wins or loses, Carlyle will still play him over James.

The Leafs lose their next game against the Habs 3-4 in OT, yet again, in Montreal. Jonathan, once again, is very calm about the whole thing. That night, on the plane ride home, Carlyle calls Bernier up to the front of the plane to have a serious tête–à–tête.

Jonathan sits down in the seat opposite to him, grinning slightly, “What’s up?”

Carlyle leans forward in his seat, “Jonathan, we fear that you aren’t producing enough, based off your recent games, so I could ask you the same thing, ‘what’s up?’ What’s going on?”

Jonathan is taken completely off guard no longer grinning. He didn’t think he wasn’t producing, he thinks he’s be fine, “Um nothing sir, I’m 100% good.”

“See that’s the thing, we cant have you at a ‘just good’. We need you to be _great_ or we’ll have to turn to James, who is more than eager to be better than good,” Carlyle says.

Jonathan is annoyed that he would even drag Reims into this. He’s under the trade radar for chrissake.

Bernier doesn’t reply and Carlyle continues, “You see, our forwards are finally scoring some goals and generating offense. The only issue is the goaltending.”

Jonathan quickly grows more annoyed with Carlyle with each sentence. _The only issue is goaltending? What about the fucking defensemen? There sure as hell are a couple things wrong with them._

Jonathan nods, “Yes sir, I understand.”

“We expect more from you, what you are doing right now is just not enough,” Carlyle says, his face serious under the dim reading light.

Jonathan nods in understanding, standing up from his seat. As he’s leaving, Carlyle places a hand on Bernier’s shoulder, “Oh and Jonathan,” Randy pauses for a moment, “I will be starting James against the Blue Jackets on Monday.”

Jonathan’s heart stops for a short moment as he forces himself to walk down the aisle coolly passing his teammates.

James is asleep, head resting against the window; reading light still on and his book open on the tray table. Jonathan shuts the light off and tucks the book away. For the rest of the flight, Jonathan stares at his hands through the darkness, wondering what he did wrong.

 

The next morning James and Jonathan wake up late in Bernier’s bed. Coach called for an off day for everyone to “get their shit together”, so practice is cancelled. Reims is already awake and dressed, sitting at the table next to the window reading the paper. The article on the sport’s page, Jonathan reads when James is in the kitchen getting his tea, is about the Leafs two-game losing streak and the goaltending situation. They talk a little about Jonathan, but mostly about James and the trade deadline.

Reims is quiet the whole morning. He keeps his distance between Jonathan and refuses to watch any T.V., look at his phone, or go on the Internet. Jonathan is frustrated by the afternoon. He is trying so hard to get James to love him, or at least show that he does, but Reims is not doing squat to help Bernier along. It’s not like James would be the only one affected by the trade. What about Jonathan? What if James went to the Kings? They don’t have very solid goaltending aside from Quick, except for an average rookie, but that’s not enough to back up an organization. If James were traded to the Kings, Jonathan would lose it.

Jonathan offers that they should try and cook an early dinner to occupy themselves and Reims silently obliges. To fill the silence, Jonathan switches on some country music, James’ favorite, as they prepare the food. Jonathan cleans the fish all while attempting to start a conversation and James cuts vegetables in silence.

It’s hard for Bernier to avoid the subject of trade, especially when six goalies have been traded already today. No doubt that’s what James has been thinking all day, waiting to receive the call saying he’s going to be shipped off to a different team. Bernie steals a couple glances at the flustered goalie.

After finishing with the carrots, James turns to face the counter behind him to pick up a cucumber, mistakenly knocking all the cut and washed vegetables on the floor. Letting out a tired sigh, Jonathan goes to help Reims pick them up.

“It’s okay I got it,” Bernie says crouching low and picking up several pieces, tucking them into his shirt pouch.

“Why? Because you think I’m gonna get traded for this? Because I’m not good enough? Because I can’t cut fucking vegetables, you’ve gotta help me out ‘nd take over ‘nd make everything better?”

Jonathan looks up at James, irritated with his tone, “No because we wont have any goddamn vegetables with our goddamn fish if I don’t pick them up and the meal will be unbalanced without them.”

“What makes you think I cant pick them up myself? I’m perfectly able to pick them up without you having to save the day all the damn time,” Reims snaps, joining Jonathan on the floor.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Jonathan spits out, standing up abruptly, letting his shirt flatten out, dropping everything he just collected back to the floor.

James stands to face him, “I don’t have any problem, but if I did, I wouldn’t need _you_ to help me with it.”

Jonathan glares at him, speaking in a low voice, “Then why are you here? Why did you come home with me last night?”

“I just need a distraction from-,” James begins.

“A _distraction_? Is that what I am? Something to get your mind off the trades? Well guess fucking what James, the trades will be here when I’m not and there’s no escaping that,” Jonathan shoves James a little for emphasis.

James stares at the vegetables on the floor wordlessly, his face grave. They stand there quietly for several long moments, Jonathan glaring at James and James staring holes into the floor.

“You’re not just a distraction, you’re much more than that,” James says quietly, sad eyes coming up to meet Jonathan’s angry dark ones.

“AM I? BECAUSE YOU DON’T FUCKING ACT LIKE IT,” Jonathan is suddenly furious, mind racing, “WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LOVE ME BACK? IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK? I GIVE YOU EVERYTHING AND WHAT DO YOU GIVE IN RETURN? WHAT DO YOU GIVE ME? WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF? TELL ME!” Jonathan steps forward aggressively, shoving Reims’ shoulders and demanding a response.

His voice is loud at first, but Reims soon breaks down and it hurts Jonathan’s heart when he hears the words in his ears, “I’M AFRAID OF YOU, OKAY? I’M AFRAID ONE DAY YOU’LL WAKE UP AND YOU WON’T NEED ME ANYMORE. I’M AFRAID THAT NOBODY WILL NEED ME ANYMORE. I’M-I’m afraid that you’ll replace me…”

The silence that follows is scary. The two stand there in taciturnity, staring at each other, equally upset. From the table across the room, James’ phone vibrates loudly against the wood. James looks petrified. Briskly, he goes over to his phone, unlocking it and reading the screen. Jonathan holds his breath and James looks up from his phone, sprinting across the room to Bernier who is still standing, awaiting an answer. Reims throws his arms around Jonathan, breathing hard into the crevice of his neck, phone tightly gripped in his palm.

“What is it, James?” Jonathan whispers, rubbing his back cautiously.

James pulls back and shows Jonathan the message from his agent announcing that Nonis has said that he will not be trading James. Jonathan grins. James is staying. James isn’t leaving.

Bernier embraces Reims, holding him close, grinning into his cheek, “I could never replace you, Reims.”

 

As Carlyle promised, James starts the game against Columbus. Reims has a shutout first period. Jonathan is proud of him. During commercial breaks, Reims skates over to the bench. Bernier thinks that the Air Canada Centre never disappoints when it comes to tunes and during his time spent bench warming, he entertains himself through quiet song. At the third break, James comes over and leans against the boards. The familiar tune of “Sweet Caroline” echoes throughout the rink. The fans sing along, still in good spirits, because the Leafs, for once, aren’t losing.

Jonathan grins to himself. Martine loved this song. She would always play it on her phone in the car and sing along to it. Jonathan can remember one day, many months back, they were driving to a café in downtown L.A. The day was gorgeous, it was warm and slightly breezy. Martine had her window rolled down and she was singing along, as always, smiling. Her hair perfectly danced in the wind and she tapped her fingers along with the beat quietly on the side of the car. Jonathan remembers staring over at her. She was breathtaking. When she caught him looking and turned her head, still smiling brightly, Jonathan saw his reflection in her sunglasses and couldn’t help but kiss her right then and there, one hand on the steering wheel.

And now, as the song fills the Air Canada Centre, Jonathan can’t help but sing along to it. James watches him, taking long gulps from a water bottle. The chorus is coming up, Jonathan can feel the anticipation under his skin, he can practically _hear_ Martine’s voice as if she were sitting right next to him just like all those days in the car.

Excitement rises up in his chest as the song gets louder, “Hands touching hands, reaching out, touching ME touching YOUUUUUU,” Jonathan reaches out and holds onto James’ blocker, “SWEEEEEET CAROLINE! BA BA BAAAA! GOOD TIMES NEVER SEEMED SO GOOD!”

James glares at Jonathan wordlessly.

“I’VE BEEN INCLINED! BA BA BAAAA! TO BELIEVE THEY NEVER WOULD!” Jonathan is beaming.

The song continues into the bridge and soon after, the chorus is nigh. Jonathan is grinning again, singing and talking along, “Waarrrmmm touching warm, c’mon Reims sing it with me! Reaching out! I know you know the words! Touchin’ MEEEE! Here it comes! TOUCHIN’ YOUUUUUU! SWEET CAROLIIIINNEE! You aren’t singing! BA BA BAAAAA! Good times never seemed so good!”

James looks at him, disinterested.

That’s when Bernier takes a moment, during a pause in the lyrics, to give James an incentive, “Sing with me, or you aint gettin’ any tonight.”

When the chorus starts back up for the final time, Jonathan begins again “SWEEET CAROLINE!”

James offers a satisfactory “‘ba ba baaa’” and Jonathan returns with an enthusiastic, “GOOD TIMES NEVER SEEMED SO GOOD” and a “put some fucking life into it, Reims”.

James finishes out the song with some vigor and Jonathan is pleased with his effort patting Reims’ shoulder as he turns and skates back to the crease to finish out the period.

Apparently, good times never last or seem so good, especially when the Blue Jackets come out full force in the second, scoring two goals only three minutes apart. James is breaking down. He doesn’t come over between breaks anymore. He just hunches down in his crease, staring at the ice, focusing intently. Jonathan knows that if James loses this game, he wont get ice time for another week. James probably knows this too. But, it’s now the forwards’ turn to score some goals and tie it up, and James has no control over this. He can’t score to make up for the shots that went passed and he must rely on their teammates to do their jobs.

The Leafs can’t tie it up, only scoring one goal late in the third. Carlyle talks briefly after the game. After he gets dressed, Jonathan waits by his stall for James to get out of the shower and Carlyle comes up to him.

“You will be starting against the Rangers on Wednesday,” is all he says.

Jonathan hates him for this. Goaltending was not the issue tonight. James was fine. James was _great_. Any offense that they generated previously vanished in this game. James got a fucking star for chrissake. Why should Jonathan play against the Rangers? He has no reason to. He lost two in a row against mediocre teams, opposites of the skilled Blue Jackets.

James surfaces from the bathroom and Jonathan snaps at him, “Let’s go.”

Reims is in a decent mood, not completely beating himself up, getting third star probably boosted his confidence a little, maybe even giving him a flash of hope that he could start in New York. Jonathan knows that this is impossible.

They drove to the rink in James’ car, but Jonathan has an urgency to get home.

“I’ll drive,” Jonathan growls, pulling James’ keys out of his own pocket, the ones he snagged from Reims’ coat before they left the building.

Jonathan drives extremely fast, eyes glued on the road the whole time, avoiding James’ staring. He doesn’t turn on the radio like he normally would and the two don’t make conversation. When they pull into the parking lot, Bernier presses his head to the steering wheel, knuckles white, gripping the leather, not getting out just yet. His breathing is harsh and loud and he can hear his pulse pounding in his ears. James watches him curiously.

“What’s wrong?” James asks softly.

“I’m just upset,” Jonathan hisses in a contained voice.

James reaches out a hand to cup Jonathan’s hot cheek. Bernie looks over to him with dark eyes.

“About what?” James inquires.

“About everything,” Jonathan says. He wishes he had the heart to tell James that no matter how hard he tries, he wont be the starter. He can’t tell him that he’s not playing against the Rangers and he can’t tell him that he wont be playing in the next game either.

“It’ll be alright,” Reims says, smiling weakly.

 _No it won’t. It never will be alright._ Jonathan just nods and follows James into his apartment.

James is in the bathroom and Jonathan sits at the island in the kitchen. He has come to love his seat there, the second stool from the left. He charges his phone at the outlet, plugging and unplugging it, feeling empty inside as he does so. The same thought keeps popping into his head and each time, it gets harder to fight off. Bernier rests his head against the cool marble, shutting his eyes. He’s tired and frustrated and he can’t help but think that if James were traded today no one would need him anymore; Jonathan would have replaced him.


	32. Stones and Glass Houses

Jonathan is sore a lot. He’d felt it a little bit in the past couple of weeks, mostly in his hips, knees, and groin, but the continuous icing seemed to tame it for the most part. That is until now. His hips are sore to the touch, gritting his teeth when the trainer attempts to loosen them up pregame. His knees swell like balloons and after practice when the gear comes off, the ice goes on. The groin is always the weakest, sore to even walk let alone play and just walking up the stairs into the back entrance of the rink, a mere three steps, triggers a burning soreness throughout. On most days, Bernie is found waddling around the rink; ice bags strapped to all parts at once, a trainer nearby to switch out the ones that spring leaks.

And James, James is oh so patient. When they carpool, Reims waits for the other goalie, either working out in the weight room or rolling out in the trainer’s room with Bernie collapsed on a table nearby, hat tugged low over his eyes, grinning because of James.

Much time is spent at the rink lately, for Bernier is much too sore to do anything else but sit and watch T.V., an occupation that grew dull long ago. A huge obstacle is that due to the pain in such an area, Reims and Bernier can’t fool around. Any pressure put on his groin causes Jonathan to hiss and wince and ache, so James just lays off. Jonathan always apologizes and James just swipes a hand and plays it off, but James longs to be touched.

Yet, through all of Jonathan’s booboos, Carlyle refuses to put James in despite the playoffs growing nigh and Jonathan on the brink of injury every time he takes the ice. Jonathan expects any day for Carlyle to give him a break, to just give Reims a chance, and he doesn’t, because the Leafs are winning. Thus, James waits and Jonathan stays sore and the Leafs continue on their quest to the playoffs like so.

 

Death Valley is what the guys are calling it. It’s one of the most despised trips of the year, when the Leafs make the hike out to California and get pummeled by all the juggernauts of the western conference. The possibility of defeat enters everyone’s mind on the plane, so spirits are high and standards of play are low. James and Jonathan relax; lazily reclining on each other and watching the guys play cards, joining the conversations every now and then.

They land in Los Angeles around 2:00 pm, where everyone drags themselves onto the bus for the 45 minute drive into Anaheim. Jonathan never reads the schedule and is quite surprised to recognize the L.A. airport as they pass through.

He immediately turns to James, “Why are we _here_?”

James looks at him drowsily, “You didn’t read the itinerary did you?”

“I didn’t think we were flying into _this_ dump,” he says glancing around at the trashcans overflowing with chipotle tin containers and white Starbucks coffee cups.

Jonathan almost missed it as they were walking through. The bathroom next to Gate B12 where Quick, after returning home following a long string of games on the east coast, tugged Jonathan into the far stall. It was early in the morning, succeeding an easy win against the Hurricanes and a long ass return flight, when Quickie followed Bernie in, pressing him against the cold wall. All the other guys went straight to the parking lot to drive home, tired from the games; it was just the two of them in the deserted place. Jonathan made more noise than he’d like to own up to, but that early morning, while their teammates were prompt to return home, Quickie was hitting all the right spots.

 

The first night in Death Valley, the Leafs come out strong, beating the Ducks 3-1, surprising almost everyone. Playoffs didn’t seem so far after that game. Such a big upset followed with a typical Leafs game in San Jose. James makes his first start in three games against the Sharks. Everyone is very confident as the puck drops, but all certainty vanishes soon after. Leafs lose 2-6.

Jonathan hurts, not just physically but mentally. James won’t talk. Reims is angry and taciturn and glares out the window and when they get to the hotel, he goes on ahead and gets to the room first. Jonathan gives James some time to settle by walking through the long carpeted halls on each floor. It’s close to midnight when Bernier pushes open the door cautiously, finding James in the bed closer to the door, the one he used to claim in the beginning of the season, and not Jonathan’s bed that they share. Jonathan observes this with distress. He hasn’t slept without James next to him in a long time. And for once, his side doesn’t look so appealing and enjoyable as it did all those months ago. Reims’ eyes are open ever so slightly, watching the door as Jonathan peeks in, letting light flood in from the hall. James averts his eyes tiredly and rolls over onto his face, avoiding Bernier.

When Jonathan does climb into bed, he cant fall asleep. He’s so far from the sound of James’ soft breathing and the silence overcomes him like a suffocating wave. Quietly, Bernie wraps himself in the comforter, grabs his pillows, and settles on the floor next to the other goalie’s bed, close enough to hear the faint sigh of his breathing. James looks down to Jonathan on the floor, eyes shiny, cheeks pink, not speaking a word.

Jonathan reaches a hand out and cards it gently through the other goalie’s hair, murmuring, “Goodnight James.”

 

The hotel in L.A. is just what a typical California hotel looks like, unlike the ones in Anaheim or San Jose. There’s an indoor river, live koi fish swimming in it, in the lobby with lush green plants and shrubs growing everywhere, either in massive pots or directly out of the ground. The ceiling is just one big window and it reminds Jonathan of that saying “People with glass houses shouldn’t throw stones”. There’s fresh fruit in bowls on every table and counter and a fucking 24 hour smoothie bar. The guys are overwhelmed with the whole thing, grabbing pineapples and mangoes for later and taking pictures by the indoor stream. The rooms themselves are massive suites with an impressive glass shower and a Jacuzzi, which James refuses to share with Jonathan because it “doesn’t fit two people” when it clearly does if James would only move over. The balcony overlooks the city below and on their first night, the city flashes bright through the darkness. Bernier, as always, shuts out the view with the large fancy purple curtains. But, the extravagant curtains annoy him just as much as the light flooding in in the morning and he’s satisfied when James draws them back. James is very pleased with the sheets and the bed and how soft and comfy everything is, Jonathan complains that the pillows are too soft and the bed will give them all back problems. Overall, Bernier despises the whole place with an unusual abhorrence, to be expected from an L.A. hotel, and doesn’t see why they are staying one night at a hotel that treats them like kings.

 

Jonathan dares not to leave the locker room, avoiding any opportunities of repeating what happened last time. He keeps an extra close eye on James too, but for his own sake, Reims doesn’t feel like talking or making a fuss today due to his performance two nights ago. Bernier stands in the corner, taping his stick rhythmically, watching James through the process. Reims sits in his stall across the room, adjusting the straps on his helmet. When he begins to notice all the discreet attention Jonathan’s giving him, he grows easily annoyed, glaring. Jonathan just grins back slightly, keeping his focus.

Jonathan finishes with his stick and then goes to pick out the other on the rack, and when he returns, James is gone. Bernier becomes a little perturbed. He should have just taped one, why would he need both? He never breaks them anyway. He checks the bathroom, the trainer’s room, even the video room, but Reims is not to be found so easily. Without thinking, Bernie pushes open the door opening into the hall of the Staples Center. It’s empty and familiar. Jonathan spent so many pregames wandering through the basement of their home ice. It’s perfectly still, light flooding in through the entrance onto the ice.

When the boys entered the rink through the back entrance early today, Bernie forced his eyes to the ground and ignored everything around him, focusing solely on James’ shoes two steps in front of him. Now, as he stands alone, all Jonathan can do is remember, but this time from the perspective outside of the visiting locker room. When he walks, his socks mask the sound that normally would echo, giving him a quiet advantage so he opts not to return to the locker room for his shoes, and 20 minutes before warmups, Bernie goes on a quest to find Reims within the heart of the Staples Center.

James sits at his locker, tying his freshly laced skates. He knows Jonathan is starting tonight; no coach in their right mind would put James in willingly after letting in six goals in the previous game. Jonathan’s locker is empty next to his own. Where could he possibly be? The count-down timer above the door seems to be moving quicker than usual and at the 10 minute mark, some of the guys come over, half dressed, wondering where the starter is. James just shrugs and finishes up with his pad.

Jonathan is enjoying himself thoroughly. After figuring out that socks are great for sliding, he occupies himself for a while on sock surfing along the slick hallway floors. Long ago he forgot about the reason why he ventured out of the locker room in the first place as well as his fears of why he had refused both James and himself to leave earlier. But, Bernie soon remembers. He’d originally just been sliding back and forth in front of his own locker room, but grew bored of the same scenery fast and explored the belly of the arena. And it is where he stands, several feet away from the King’s locker room and a door he walked through so many times, when he tenses up as a hand rests on his shoulder.

The cold air rushes off of Quick. He was probably on the bench doing his pregame stretches, as always, wooing the crowd in the process as they ooh and ahh over his flexibility. Bernie doesn’t even blink as Quickie presses himself against his back, lips gently on his neck, stubble scratching him. His dick is hard against Jonathan’s ass and strong hands hold Bernier in place as he ruts against him, one on his leg and the other on his chest.

“Someone will see us,” Bernier breathes out as Quick rocks them back and forth.

“Everyone’s already dressed, no one’s out here,” Quick replies, kissing up Jonathan’s jawline.

Bernie moans low in his throat and Quick grins against his cheek, readjusting his hand placement from his leg to his hip. The contact on his weak hip hurts and causes Jonathan to cry out in pain. Quick doesn’t know what he did and has no idea that he is holding onto Jonathan’s hip way too hard. Jonathan whimpers and hisses as Quick tries to bring him close again. Bernier refuses to ask him to stop, but he can feel the popping and twisting of the injured area, the pain spreading into his groin and shooting down his legs. Quick is close and moans into the thick of Bernie’s shoulder, biting down to muffle his noises. Quick comes hard and loosens his grip, collapsing against the wall, grinning, eyes on Jonathan as he staggers off to the side, regaining his breath, biting back shaky breaths, his groin on fire.

After a short period of time Quick makes his way over to Jonathan holding himself up with a table. Bernier keeps his eyes trained on the floor. Quick tilts Bernier’s chin up to see his face, but the other goalie refuses, glaring at him and pulling his head back.

“Why do you fight me Jonathan?” Quick grins, dragging a careful hand through Jonathan’s stubble.

Bernier doesn’t respond, flinching a little when Quick presses a soft kiss to his forehead, watching as he turns and walks through the locker room doors.

James stares as the clock dwindles, only three minutes left until pregame warmups. Jonathan isn’t back yet. No one knows where he is. The last anyone saw of him was when he was taping his sticks. Lups saw him grab another roll and suspects he went out onto the bench to tape his other stick, but when the guys went out to check, no one was there. They said the hall was empty. All of the sudden, Bernier busts through the door, eyes wild, face flushed.

The guys all seem to relax, cracking jokes about where he was. Jonathan just keeps his eyes on his gear, going with the story that he got lost, a tale that the boys find hilarious since Jonathan spent most of his career in this rink. He can feel James watching him intently, ears growing red with shame.

The first period is painful. His hip and groin throb with discomfort and tenderness. Every movement causes a deeper pain and they grow so delicate that Bernier doesn’t even think about skating over to the bench between commercial breaks. In the other end, Quickie stares him down, eyes on everything Bernie does, no doubt he’s picking apart every mistake he makes, grinning at his backup struggling. The Kings wear their alternate jerseys tonight, Jonathan’s favorite; a dark lush purple with poised gold trim and an ostentatious crown in the middle. But, somehow, when Quick wears it, the jerseys don’t look as good. About halfway through the first, Jonathan slides to his left to meet the stick of Brown going backdoor, but misjudges his angle and is forced to extend his leg out to get a toe on the puck. It looks like a highlight real save and the crowd goes wild for it, but Jonathan feels the aftermath deep in his groin, gritting his teeth and holding back a roar of pain.

Two goals get passed him in the first and Jonathan pulls himself off the ice after the horn sounds, Leafs losing 1-2, thankful for a rest. Bernie wants to finish out the game, but his groin states otherwise and Carlyle looks reluctant to put Reimer in when Bernier reports his injury.

The trainer is in no way gentle. He prods and massages and pulls and tweaks and Jonathan writhes in displeasure. The flatscreen on the wall of the trainer’s room shows the start of the second period and James warming up in net. The announcers talk about his poor play against the Sharks and before that, his loss against the Blues. Jonathan is annoyed. James is fine.

After the trainer works on Bernie, concluding his pain is due to a groin strain, he is told to get suited up again and take his seat on the bench per Carlyle’s request. Jonathan is reluctant. It doesn’t make sense for him to get suited up to watch, that’s James’ job. Complying with such a stupid demand is hard and watching is even harder. The game is tied at 2-2 when Bernier takes his place at the beginning of the third.

James is so solid between the pipes. His movements so quick and reactions alert, Jonathan feels as though this is the first game all season that James Reimer is actually playing like James Reimer. He’s stealing the show away from Quick and Bernie grins; _he’s back_. Jealousy is the last thing that Jonathan could feel right now. The Kings grow flustered, James keeping up with everything they throw his way. Even when Stoll clips Reims in the head with his skate, he bounces back immediately.

Five minutes in, the Kings get a power play and Bernie can feel a goal coming. Nervousness settles deep in his stomach. James is never good with penalty kills, the extra guy always psyches him out, even if he never wants to admit it. Play begins and the Kings start out strong, making fast passes and keeping control of the puck and the Leafs look helpless against their precise power play. The puck gets to Kopitar alone in front, spinning and going to Reims’ right and toward the empty side. But, James flashes the pad and stuffs him blind, the rebound popping out to JVR with Raymond joining him for a two on one down the ice. The crowd is mesmerized, still, by James astonishing save as the two Leafs forwards cross the Kings’ blue line. At the top of the circle, JVR feeds an unexpected pass to May Ray who tees up for a slap shot, top shelf glove side on Quick, a goalie known for his flashy glove. For a moment, the entire Staples Center stares in awe of what the hell just happened. The few Leafs fans in attendance show their appreciation and Jonathan looks to James in the net, grinning to himself. Leafs win 3-2, snapping the Kings’ winning streak with James’ first star shutout.

On the bus back to the airport, James doesn’t talk much, he just smiles and holds Jonathan, drowsy from the pain and anti-inflammatory meds, pressing kisses into his hair and brushing a finger across his throbbing hip.

On the plane to D.C., everyone is silent. There’s a little murmuring here and there, mostly Kadri and Reilly bickering about who got the primary assist on Phaneuf’s goal, and Bodie snoring up a storm in the front. But, in the back, a few rows from the wall, Reims and Bernie don’t talk; lying sprawled out, Jonathan’s head on James’ shoulder, they watch each other wordlessly. Jonathan doesn’t want to talk about his injury or Quick and James doesn’t want to talk about the game or Jonathan’s pregame absence. But, the flight is over five hours and eventually one of them breaks.

“Why weren’t you in the locker room before the game?” James whispers into Bernier’s hair.

Jonathan repositions his ice packs and stares into space for a few long moments. He is slow to respond, “I saw Quick,” Bernier says softly.

James comprehends the answer easily with a quiet, _“Oh.”_ As in _I know exactly what you did and how you did it and why, but I can always forgive you of that._

Jonathan loves how on the topic of Quick, James understands that it’s a touchy subject, even if he doesn’t know why and how, he drops the conversation as soon as the opportunity arises, for Bernier’s sake of course. James is safe when he does this, because he knows that since Jonathan has messed around with Quick more times than can be counted, he cannot throw stones, for he has a glass house of his own, on the topic of James and Quick. This pains Jonathan; he wants to keep James to himself and tell him to stay away from Quick, for knowing that he has an affect on James hurts and makes James regret the glass house that he built with Quick.

“How did it feel?” Jonathan begins with a dull anger, “To beat Quick on his own ice?”

James grins bashfully and pauses a moment, “It felt so right, like it was meant to happen.”

Bernier’s smile fades a little. Yes, it’s nice that James got a big win and an even bigger shutout, but at what cost? James is only to play when Jonathan is physically incapable of doing so. Bernie yearned to be the one in net to beat Quick. He can’t hide that he wanted to be in that position so badly.

“How’re your parts?” James asks to keep the conversation going, tapping a finger lightly on Bernie’s hip.

Bernier shrugs and dodges the question smoothly, averting his eyes. Plane rides never help, they blow up the already swollen areas until they’re stiff and puffy and just thinking about it bothers Jonathan.

Bernier turns his attention to James, grinning to himself, “And what about you,” James is turning a little pink at the cheeks from the confidence in Bernie’s voice, “How are _your_ parts,” he finishes, licking the shell of his ear and biting on the lobe with a hand traveling to his crotch.

James has no time to protest before Jonathan is reaching into his boxers and beginning to stroke him way slower than he wants.

“St-stop Bernie,” James hisses, “Someone will _see_ us.”

Jonathan peeks his head above the seats, surveying the area. The closest teammate is Franson seven rows up, feet hanging over the side of the seat and into the aisle; he’s completely knocked cold.

“No one is even _here_ to see us,” Bernier responds and James relaxes only a little.

James is louder than Jonathan expected him to be. He’s moaning and hissing more than usual, probably because he hasn’t seen any action in a while. After James lets out a particularly loud whine, Jonathan crushes their lips together for a deep, fervent kiss, biting down on his bottom lip every now and then. When James comes, he presses his face into Jonathan’s neck to control an outcry, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.

Bernier wipes his hand on the little drink napkins that they handed out at the beginning of the flight and embraces Reims, pulling up the armrest and allowing him to keep his head resting on his shoulder. In return, James permits Bernier to throw his legs over his own for better comfort.

The flight is shaky and unpleasant after that, and James is passed out, leaving Jonathan to stare out the window at the dark sky dotted with stars, above the blanket of thick clouds below. He begins to think about the games ahead. Right now, the Leafs are in a great playoff position. After Jonathan gets better, he hopes to start in all the games for his first playoff experience since Quick took all the games in L.A. and with James as the other option in net, Bernier will surely play all the games. With that in mind, Jonathan cant help but think that there is a slight chance that they wont make the playoffs. But he soon brushes trivial worries off his shoulder; after Reims’ game tonight there is no uncertainty that James has his confidence back and the Leafs will make it to the offseason.

After that, Jonathan feels little twinges of dissatisfaction as his thoughts turn to Jonathan Quick. Why did he not react when Quick came onto him? Why couldn't he just walk away? He has James now, they have something so strong, so perfect that James can forgive him every time Jonathan goes astray, whether Bernier can do the same for Reims is a different story. Bernie didn't even fight it, he just accepted it, allowed Quick in. Once again, the point comes up, the one that James always brushes off and tells Jonathan is bullshit, that James is so good, so fervent, so sweet and Jonathan is so dark and harsh especially when James is so good to Jonathan and Jonathan isn't so good to James. After that fight with Quick in the Washington hotel, James bandaged up Jonathan's cut for fucks sake. If it were Jonathan in that position, he would feel too much shame to even _look_ at Reims. Above all, Jonathan underestimated how much control Quick has over him and doubts that he will be able to say no to Quick the next time their paths cross.

Distraught with his own thoughts and actions, Jonathan looks to James, breathing quietly into his chest. Gingerly he presses a kiss to the top of his head, whispering, “Goodnight James.”


	33. I Only Want to be Here with You

The Washington hotel is massive and richly furnished, as though the president himself would walk through the huge glass doors any moment and be satisfied with the décor. James is content with the variety of teas that he is to choose out of, from chamomile to ginger peach. There are magnificent white couches that look like the ones in Jonathan’s apartment, in the lobby and a fireplace with a roaring flame that heats the whole room. The floors are white marble and click when the Leafs make their way to the grand glass elevators with gold trim.

On this particular day, there is a new addition to the Leafs roster, freshly plucked from the Marlies. A replacement is what he is. He’s awkward and clearly uncomfortable around the guys. His name? Drew MacIntyre. Phaneuf welcomed Drew to stay in his room, but Carlyle gave orders that the new goalie would be staying with James, and Jonathan would be in his own room for resting purposes and not to be a distraction for the _healthy_ players.

James notices Jonathan’s annoyed disposition towards this new goalie. He hates him. It’s quite obvious. But, it’s not like Drew could notice anyway, he shrinks off to the side and is completely oblivious to everything going on around him. In the elevator, Reims and Bernie look down at Drew standing alone, staring at a fountain in the lobby, completely unaware that everyone has left. The elevator stops at floor four and a couple of the guys get off to go work out before the morning skate, but James and Jonathan remain with several of their other teammates. Bernier leans against the wall, glaring down below.

On the plane, Jonathan didn’t talk much. Reims could tell how disappointed Jonathan was about something, most likely with his injury. He’s very hard on his body sometimes and the injury was probably extremely unexpected and inconvenient. He was drugged out of his mind on the plane, his words slurred almost to the point of being unintelligible.

Now, Jonathan stands, clearly favoring his right leg, tapping on the glass as though Drew were a half-witted goldfish, whispering something to himself meant for Drew along the lines of, _“fucking idiot”_ as if he could hear him from where he dawdles in the lobby.

“You think we should tell him that’s a wishing fountain?” Jonathan says, a hint of annoyance in his voice, eyes still trained.

James spots Drew, suit sleeves rolled up to the elbow, leaning over the fountain with one hand in the water, picking up coins at the bottom.

Kessel snickers quietly under his breath and Bozie grins good-humoredly, but Jonathan doesn’t even blink.

“I think he considers it just free money,” Phaneuf smiles.

“But he can’t really be that…” Range begins.

“That what? That _stupid_?” Jonathan sneers.

The elevator stops at the eleventh floor, where the rest of the Leafs get off to meet with Carlyle in his room to watch film and get feedback about their play in Death Valley. James and Jonathan are the only ones left. As the doors shut, Jonathan starts knocking on the glass to get the goalie’s attention. It takes a few tries, but Drew finally finds the source of the noise, spots Jonathan; grinning and waving up at him, Jonathan reluctantly deigns to return the favor, and Drew then realizes he’s stranded, making a beeline for the stairs; a truly stupid choice, because walking twenty-two flights of stairs is not the best choice of transportation, especially before his possible NHL debut.

 _“Fucking wish-killer,”_ Jonathan mumbles to himself, turning away from the window.

James grins to himself. Jonathan _must_ know that Drew is certainly not a permanent thing. Not even close. But, Bernier doesn’t care; he begins to criticize the poor guy, about how his last name has a random capital letter in it and who the hell does that? And how his number is 35, ten digits less than Bernier’s own number 45, which is symbolism meaning Bernier is ten times the goalie Drew will ever be and so on and so forth, finishing every jab with the same label _“fucking wish-killer”_.

James just grins and holds in his laughs. He feels kind of bad for Drew; he’s a tad off. The elevator slows to a stop at floor 22 and James is a little unwilling to leave Bernier, whose suite is on a different floor. Yes, the only upside to not rooming with Reims is Bernie gets a suite all to himself, but James doubts that this will make it up to Jonathan.  
Before James can get out of the elevator, Jonathan pulls him in for a hard kiss, like the one he planted on his lips for the first time in Philly, all rough and messy and full of want and need and urgency. James moans as Bernier grabs at his ass, forgetting that they’re in a _glass_ elevator out in the open. The elevator doors shut and it jolts upward to floor 25. James missed his stop. When Jonathan does break the kiss, he’s grinning; James standing dazed and breathless.

No doubt Bernie did this on purpose so he wouldn’t ride up to his floor alone, his smug face shows it, and Reims glares, pressing the button back down to floor 22 as the elevator dings, allowing Bernie to hobble out, but not before he gives a Reims a good hard slap on the ass.

 

James has concluded that Drew is not only stupid, but boring as well. James claimed the far bed, the one that Bernier always takes. He’d rather have Drew sleep where James normally would than even _attempt_ to replace Bernier by sleeping in the one nearest to the window even though it’s right next to the AC and James gets cold easily. It’s usually not so bad sleeping in Bernie’s bed because Jonathan is always holding him through the night, radiating heat and evening out with the AC.

Drew sits on his bed, flipping through a magazine and turning the pages loudly. Every minute or so, he will look up from his reading material and glance over at James and ask him a pointless question. James answers it briskly and with a positive attitude. Then the room is filled with dull, awkward silence because Drew just had to know how many shots the goalies normally take during pregame warmups before they rotate. When the conversation does continue past three sentences, Drew talks about virtually _nothing_. James tries to read his book so bad, but Drew has a backwards internal timer that goes off just as James is getting back into the rhythm of reading the words on the page.

Reims thinks about texting Jonathan to come down and despises that he’s on a different floor. Bernie is probably satisfied that he’s situated on highest floor in the building, he’s always enjoyed the view anyway.

Moments later, there’s a quick knock on the door and Drew pops up off the bed and sprints to get it, James slowly getting up and following him. From behind Drew's twiggy frame, Reims can clearly see Bernier’s glower of disapproval of having the door open to MacIntyre, imagining Bernie’s voice in his head hissing _you couldn’t have gotten up a few seconds before him? Now I have to look at this fucking dunce of a human._ James pushes the other goalie aside to face Jonathan, who looks genuinely glad to see him.

Jonathan said he was lonely and wanted some company and James was quick to oblige. As soon as James steps through the door, he’s jealous of Jonathan’s suite. The whole room is white with gold trim, white rugs cover the floor, white sheets and comforters cover the bed, and white furniture adorns the place. Aside from that, the room itself is massive and has its own kitchen, which James finds a little ridiculous, but it’s perfect for Bernier’s taste.

Jonathan has a king size bed all to himself and a flatscreen T.V. mounted on the wall in front of it, so he puts on a movie. James begins to watch, but he notices quickly that Jonathan isn’t watching it with him. They picked a movie that Jonathan would enjoy, _Captain America_ , but he’s not even paying attention to it, he’s just watching James instead, eyes soft.

“I don’t want to watch anymore,” James finally says and Jonathan just grins lightly when James shuts it off.

The silence is nice for once, not the haunting silence after April left or the awkward silence of Drew, but the good silence of Bernier holding him as though he would never want to let go. James looks around the room and observes what Jonathan could have possibly been doing before he ventured to floor 22. A tie and dress shirt are laid out on a white chair in the corner along with his dress shoes. Bernier is already wearing his belt, dress pants, and socks, so Reims concludes that he was getting dressed for the pregame skate when he decided to drop everything and get James.

The light floods in through the massive floor to ceiling windows, illuminating the room with a dull light, for the sun hides behind thick, gray clouds today. Under the aurora, Reims studies Bernier, his bare chest, his sleeve tattoo on his left shoulder, his stubbly face and dark, unforgiving eyes. Jonathan stares back at James, cupping his cheek, pressing a soft kiss to his nose. James finds this so incredibly sappy and grins and shakes his head, pulling back, but Jonathan wants to be even _more_ sugary sweet, so unlike how he normally acts, and tries give him eskimo kisses. James laughs quietly trying to push Jonathan away, who’s smirking, eyes squinting and smiling.  
“Where would I be right now if I didn’t have you?” Jonathan says, amused.

“Listening to MacIntyre talk about jersey material,” James replies good-humoredly.

Jonathan takes this as a reason to pull James closer, forcing Drew out of his mind as soon as humanly possible.

 

Jonathan sits in an empty stall at the end of the locker room, watching the guys get prepped for the morning skate. Actually, he’s mostly just glowering at MacIntyre from across the room, blind to everything going on around him. He’s in his own little idiotic world, pulling on his gear happily. Someone gave him a Leafs hat, which he wears backwards and Bernier didn’t think it was possible for him to look like more of a moron. During the course of the morning, the guys came up with the nickname Mac, using it only when they felt that it was absolutely necessary that he was to be included in their conversations.

Bernie sits on the bench during practice, disinterestedly surveying the ice and his teammates. There’s barely anyone in the stands watching at the Kettler Iceplex, for the Caps practice is after theirs and no one has showed up yet. Jonathan can only think what a long and painful recovery process this will be. In the far end, Mac, in his ugly mismatched blue pads, glove and blocker CCM and pads Bauer, stands waiting for shots. He doesn’t realize that the drill they’ve been doing for the past five minutes doesn’t involve shots, yet there he is in a half-ready stance, anticipating some miraculous onslaught that will never commence.

In the locker room, Jonathan waits in the empty locker, tying and untying knots in a piece of skate lace he found on the floor until the showers begin to empty out and the boys start getting dressed. The normal gray locker room conversations start and at some point, when James is absent from the room, presumably talking to the trainer, Lups brings up a topic that catches Bernie’s interest.

“So tomorrow’s Reims’ birthday,” Joffrey says, pulling on a shirt.

“The 15th already?” Phanuf replies, concentrating on some stubborn cuff buttons.

“Didn’t he have one last year? Jesus Christ,” Bodie grins.

Conversation continues, leading to scheming about possibly pieing him before the game, but Jonathan blocks them out until something else comes up.

“Should we get him a gift or something? Do people even do that kind of thing still?” Reilly asks.

The guys shrug, realizing that they don’t know what the hell to get him.

“What does he like?” Phanuf questions.

“Just get him some flowers, he’ll appreciate that,” JVR grins.

“Who the hell wants fucking flowers?” Kessel retorts from his corner.

“Peanut butter blossoms,” Bozie half smiles.

“What?” Bodie looks confused as does everyone else.

“They’re his favorite,” Bozie is still smiling to himself, untaping his stick.

“I told you he likes flowers,” JVR says proudly.

“They’re not flowers, asshat,” Bozie shoots him a quick look of annoyance, “They’re these little peanut butter cookies. He told me they’re his favorite. His girlfriend makes ‘em.”

“That’s a shitty, shitty birthday gift,” Kessel says blatantly.

“Well, do you have any other ideas?” Bozie looks irritated.

“Ask Bernie, Reims never hangs out with us any more, he’s always with him,” Bodie nods toward Jonathan, still messing with the laces, trying to appear as though he’s not eavesdropping, hat pulled low over his eyes. Everyone turns to look at Jonathan.

He shrugs, looking up from his lace, smirking, “I still like the flower idea.”

 

Bernier sits alone with his laptop at the enormous table, large enough to host the Queen of England for a royal feast, in his suite. All the recipes online are ridiculously complex. It’s hard to find just a plain recipe and not some red velvet peppermint swirl shit. Jonathan is only looking for regular peanut butter blossoms.

James had asked Jonathan where he wanted to have dinner, but Jonathan has other plans and encouraged Reims to go out with the guys to the steakhouse down the street, since they whined about James spending too much time goalie bonding with Bernier. Besides, Jonathan needs some alone time.

Jonathan walks through the vast aisles at Giant, glancing down at his lockscreen every now and then, half expecting to see a new message from Reims, but mainly to check the ingredients in the recipe that he screenshotted and made his background. After passing through the snack aisle four times over, Bernie is forced to ask for assistance. He makes his way over to the bakery and asks a woman, about his age, maybe a little younger, where the fuck they’re hoarding all the peanut butter.

“Pardon me miss,” Bernie flashes a grin, “Could you please point me in the direct of the peanut butter?”

She smiles and blushes a little “Aisle four, next to the condiments.”

“Thanks… Lizzy,” Jonathan glances at her nametag briefly, grinning.

She seems very flattered and keeps the conversation going, “I like your accent, you’re not from around here are you?”

Of course he’s not from around here, did she even hear his voice? _Americans._ “I’m from Quebec, but I live in Toronto,” Jonathan says pleasantly.

“Oh, Canada, so what brings you south? It must feel like summer here compared to Canada’s weather,” She says sweetly.

At first, Jonathan thought this baker girl kind of pretty and cute with her curled brown hair and thin figure, but every time she opens her mouth, he grows less fond of her. If she knew anything about weather, she would realize that Canada and D.C. have had almost the same weather patterns for the past few months, because the entirety of North America is experiencing the wrath of a fucking _polar vortex_.

“Business actually,” Jonathan smiles, thanking her for her help and walking away briefly.

Baking is not Bernier’s forte. He’s not terrible, it’s only he had very little practice; Martine always cooked everything, shooing Jonathan out of the kitchen every time he offered to help.

The kitchen floor is speckled with grains of powdery ingredients that spilled, sticking to the bottom of his feet. Eggshells litter the counter and a roll of paper towels is unraveled next to the sink. When pouring the flour, it hit the bottom of the bowl hard, puffing up into a white cloud. Jonathan changes shirts twice, first when the milk splatters and second when the sugar butter mixture tips over. Staring at the dough, it looks nothing like he’d expect it to.

Bernier grabs a spoonful of the dough and tastes it, concluding that is the most successful thing he’s ever created. The rolling of the dough balls and then covering them with sugar is a delicate job, meant for a person with smaller, daintier hands. As they bake, the room begins to fill with the enticing fragrance of peanut butter and Bernier is a little upset when he has to slide open all the balcony doors to air out the place, just in case James decides to drop by after dinner. Jonathan settles on trying out the Jacuzzi while he waits for the timer to run out and to keep his mind off James and his injury. As the water fills the tub, Bernier walks out with bare feet onto the balcony in the cold air and looks out at the frozen D.C. streets below, the people milling about, so high up above them that they look like dots. From this position, Jonathan feels so important as he watches the dots, but soon remembers his place. As of now, Jonathan is to keep out of the way of his teammates who are able to contribute. Within a matter of days, he has gone from the top of the totem pole to rock bottom. The wind blows coarsely, rattling the dots below and encouraging them to walk faster, and at the same time reminding Jonathan that he’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt and the inside of the room is much warmer than the outside.

Bernier hobbles back inside, pulling off clothing and chucking it in the direction of his suitcase. There is a flatscreen T.V. mounted on the opposite wall, which Bernie clicks on to fill the silence once he’s in the tub. It’s a sappy love movie, the kind that Martine likes to watch where the girl and the boy meet and hate each other at first and the audience is supposed to believe they wont fall in love and then they start liking each other and end up together as a perfect match. Martine would get really into those types of movies, asking Jonathan, “Do you think that so and so will marry so and so? They’re _perfect_? What do you think Jonathan? Wait, no, shhh this is important…” and every time Bernier would try and tell her what he thought and that it was so predictable who would end up with who, she would shush him to silence.

Jonathan isn’t even paying attention to the screen anymore, thoughts elsewhere, eyes fixed on the sun burning through the thick clouds sinking beneath the buildings through his balcony window. The oven timer goes off and Jonathan slowly heaves himself out of the water and staggers his way in the nude to the kitchen, only slipping twice. After taking the blossoms out, carefully Bernier sticks a Hershey kiss in the center of each cookie, yet another delicate and dainty task not fit for his large hands.

Getting back in the Jacuzzi would be too much work, Bernier decides, so he opts to drain the water and take a nap, concluding that clothes aren’t necessary for this task.

The knock at the door comes ten minutes later. Frantically, Jonathan sits up from his slumber, stumbling across the room in search of a towel, for he’s still dripping. He grabs a towel from the rack in the bathroom and opens the door a crack, trying not to flash the visitor at the door. It’s James, grinning as Bernier peers around the door, attempting to dry his sopping hair with a towel.

“Can I come in?” James asks meekly.

“No,” Jonathan responds quickly and a little too harshly; he wants the cookies to be a _surprise_ , “It’s uh, really messy.”

“I don’t _care_ , I just want to talk, it’s not like it matters where,” James smiles.

“Perfect, meet you in the lobby in two minutes then,” Bernier says hurriedly, shutting the door before James can form another sentence.

Pants are impossible to find at the moment as Bernier hurriedly searches through his suitcase, finding plenty of suitable shirts and no drawers. He hisses with annoyance, grabbing the same sweatpants he wore before his soaking, not even bothering to waste time on putting on boxers.

James sits alone at a little table in the lobby, pondering what happened at dinner. The guys surprised James with a birthday celebration and Phanuf even bought him a balloon. The dinner itself was pretty nice, it was at an expensive steakhouse in downtown D.C. and they passed the monuments on the way there, where most of the guys asked the bus driver to slow down so they could take pictures.

Some kind-hearted teammate of his made sure to keep Mac far away from Reims so he wouldn’t be bored the entire time. At the end, the boys sang to him, very badly, and most of them handed out gifts that were poorly wrapped in dorky paper. Lups was the first, with a snuggie, then Kessel and Bozie with a joint gift and then Franson and Range both gave him socks, and finally JVR, who somehow had the urge to give him flowers. Others, such as Bodie and Bollie wrapped up the little hotel shampoo samplers and called that a present, and Dion claimed his balloon counted as a gift in its own. Kadri obviously didn’t know what to get Reims, so he just slipped him a twenty just after the appetizers came out with a sticky note stuck to it with the words _HBD Reims –Kadri_ scrawled on it in pencil. Even Drew pitched in and wrapped a pack of gum for James. There was also an inappropriate card, probably picked out by Lups, with everyone’s signature. The strange thing about the dinner was that it felt like old times, before Jonathan came and Reims wasn’t stressed. He was happy. And throughout the whole party, he didn’t miss Bernier once.

When Jonathan finally comes down, they don’t stay long because Bernier says that he has this really important birthday gift for Reims upstairs. He’s really fidgety in the elevator and when they get inside Bernier’s room, he presses his body against Reims’, hands drifting to his lower back and bringing their hips together. Their foreheads touch, but their lips don’t meet and they stand, practically motionless, Jonathan’s eyes filled with want.

Reims takes control, locking their lips, rolling his hips and guiding Bernie’s forward. Jonathan cusses against James’ mouth biting down hard, and pulling away, staggering a couple feet back. _Right_ , _his injury._ Jonathan looks flustered and disoriented, eyes to the floor, upset.

He flinches when James comes up behind him, lips on his neck, “ _It’s okay_ ,” James whispers softly.

Jonathan shakes his head, shuffling a few feet forward and sitting down on the edge of the bed. James joins him, letting their foreheads meet. They’re quiet for several minutes until Bernie tries again, pushing James gently back on the bed and unbuttoning his jeans.

“You don’t have-,” Reims begins.

Jonathan leans forward and bites down hard on his hipbone before a full sentence can leave his mouth. Bernier replaces his teeth with soft kisses. James relaxes for a moment, but tenses up when teeth return to the sensitive spot. Bernie’s eyes flick up to meet James’ his heart beating fast in his chest. Bernier grins, removing his mouth, letting it come to meet James’, who moans fervently and pushes into the kiss.

Jonathan pulls off earlier than James wants and runs his hands up and down Reims’ chest and stomach, slowly peeling off his many layers.

“Hurry _up_ , Jonathan,” James growls, hands moving to help with the clothing removal process.

Bernier’s face grows dark very fast, pinning the other goalies hands down by his sides, “No touching,” he says.

James is still almost fully clothed, his pants down to his knees, boxers still on, and his shirt untouched. His socks and shoes haven’t even been glanced at.

Jonathan pauses to kiss up James’ jawline leading to his ear, sucking on the lobe, sending shivers racing down his spine, before hiking up his shirt and biting his way across Reims’ stomach. Fucking tease. James is achingly hard and urges to be touched. Impatiently, he bucks his hips up in an attempt to brush his crotch against some part of Jonathan’s body leaning over him.

Bernier clicks disapprovingly in the back of his throat, shoving James’ hips into the mattress and sucking on the other hipbone. He drags his teeth along the skin then bites down playfully before pulling his lips away completely. James growls at the harshness of the cold air after the loss of contact, but Jonathan only pulls away to trace his tongue along the skin just above his waistband. James shutters. Little chills form on his arms and legs, and Bernier pauses a moment to smirk at his work.

Once again, Jonathan stalls, catching James’ lips for a kiss. At first, he brings his face near James’, but doesn’t allow their lips to touch, and every time James attempts to press them together, Jonathan will draw back very slowly, reeling him forward more and more each time, but never successful. James whines in annoyance and Bernier grins smugly, eyes scrunching up. This time, Jonathan doesn’t tug away and James can get their lips together, Jonathan smiling against them.

Bernier sneakily dips a hand into Reims’ boxers, wrapping a hand around James for a brief moment before taking his hand out. Jonathan breaks the kiss easily and James is irritated with Bernier’s constant teasing.

Bernier is taking great pleasure in all this and at the moment, he sits back on his heels, watching James as he flops back on the pillows. James can tell how red his face is and how messy his hair looks; how undone he is and he grows embarrassed under Bernie’s gaze. James wants Bernier to fuck him tonight, but he knows that his injury will prevent him from doing so. Jonathan teases him still with the idea, pressing his hard dick through his sweats against James’ ass playfully. And _, he’s not wearing boxers,_ which makes the whole thing even worse. Bernier’s hair is all mussed up, his cheeks slightly pink, and James wants to kiss him and touch him all at once, but Bernie is running the show here, so Reims has to sit back and watch with great control as Bernier finally pulls down James’ boxers.

Jonathan’s tongue traces up his length, pressing a soft kiss to the tip before starting at the bottom again. James moans and grips the sheets, raising his hips off the bed in an effort to gain more contact. Jonathan, for once, allows James this and helps him out by swallowing his dick down, then creating a fast pace that leaves James breathless and cussing loudly. He’s close, especially when Jonathan swirls his tongue around the tip and drags his teeth along his length. Bernier brings his eyes up to meet James’, sucking down once more and James is spilling over the edge, crying out Jonathan’s name in ecstasy.

Bernier sits back on the bed, watching James slowly come back to reality. James notices how hard Jonathan is through his pants. But, he looks so unsure, doubting if he can get off without tweaking his injury. James sits up to face Jonathan, a hand cupping his hard cock through his clothes. He hisses, throwing his head back. James tugs his pants down just enough to expose Jonathan’s dick. It only takes a few pumps before Bernie is moaning and coming hard, collapsing against the pillows with James lying back next to him.

James rests his head on Jonathan’s stomach, smiling to himself. He can hear Jonathan’s heartbeat loud in his ears, slowly returning to a normal pace.

“I don’t want to go back to my room,” James whispers quietly as Jonathan swipes his thumb gently against James’ cheek. He suddenly becomes aware of the darkness of evening filling the room and how the sun was just sinking below the horizon when he first came in. James looks up to catch Jonathan watching him with dark, easy eyes.

“I don’t want to see Mac right now,” James finishes, messing with a seam on the bottom of Bernier’s t-shirt.

“Fucking wish-killer,” Bernier growls, wrapping his arms around James.

“I only want to be here, with you,” James whispers, glancing up to see Jonathan smiling back at him.

Jonathan pulls off his shirt and tucks himself under the covers, James doing the same. As the last light of evening vanishes, the lights begin to flash through the window below and gradually D.C. begins to light up the night sky. James is facing Jonathan and Jonathan is facing James, every now and then pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek or his forehead or his nose, watching James’ blushing reaction and smiling a bit each time.

With one final goodnight kiss, Jonathan murmurs a quiet, “Happy birthday, Reims,” looking almost reluctant to shut his eyes, as though James wouldn’t be there next to him in the morning.


	34. Only Sometimes

James creeps across the cold wooden floors into the kitchen. Early morning light is drawn in through the windows, sweeping across the walls and resting on Jonathan still asleep in a mess of white comforter on the bed. Reims makes his way to the kitchen, noticing a tray covered in rows and rows of _no… it can’t be_. James takes a step back, breath catching in his chest, gripping the side counter. He glances around the room nervously. Peanut butter blossoms. James hasn’t seen them in what feels like forever. They’re April’s signature dessert, and she only made them for James, no one else.

Tentatively, he reaches out and snags one, taking a bite out of it. The cookie is soft and moist and the Hershey kiss compliments the peanut butter oh so well. As he chews, his chest grows tight at the thought of April. He wonders where she is now and whom she woke up with this morning. He wonders if she is wearing another man’s shirt like James is wearing Jonathan’s now. Reims grabs another. Does she think about him? Does she grow sad because of such thoughts like James does?

These painful ideas are interrupted by shuffling footsteps and a sleepy Bernier. He’s smiling drowsily, pulling a hand through his hair; it’s getting rather long and a haircut is well overdue.

“You found ‘em,” Bernie grins, eyes soft.

James just nods, taking another bite and staring at the floor wordlessly. He hurts. Bernier senses something is wrong and brings a hand up to cup James’ face gently. April appears again in the back of James’ mind and Reims moves out of Jonathan’s touch, glancing over to the cookies on the tray in perfect rows. Bernie doesn’t follow his gaze, just watching James’ dark eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Bernie whispers, taking a step closer, resting a delicate hand behind James on the counter.

“Mm’nothing,” James mumbles turning away and walking back to the bed.

He flops down into the covers, turning on the T.V to another marvel movie, mostly for Jonathan to distract him from James and his emotions. But, when Bernier joins James, he doesn’t watch the screen, he watches James, looking down at him with concern.

Something must’ve clicked because after minutes of movie dialogue radiating out of the hotel room surround sound, Jonathan asks, “Do you miss her?”

James stares into space, head resting on Bernier’s stomach, listening to his heartbeat pick up. “Only sometimes,” James whispers.

James never really stopped loving April. He just found Jonathan, who helped ease the pain a bit. He’d hoped that by now he would have forgotten her, but the emptiness in the pit of his stomach reminds him that he’s no better off than when he started.

Jonathan absent-mindedly pets a hand through Reims’ hair and neither of them speak after that. James pretends to be watching the movie, but he’s not really paying attention, bobbing in and out of listening to Bernie’s heartbeat and remembering the sound of April’s voice in his ear. Jonathan doesn’t even pretend to focus on the T.V. and just stares out the window vacantly. This goes on for about twenty minutes until James slowly gets dressed, Jonathan sitting in the same position watching him sadly, and mumbles something about being on time for the morning skate. Jonathan stands up to say goodbye to James at the door, pressing a single chaste kiss to his forehead before watching him leave and shutting the door.

 

The trainer in California scheduled Jonathan for an MRI in D.C. for later that morning, about the time that his teammates would be arriving at the rink. Bernie sits in the waiting room, tapping his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. He’d already looked at all the ads in the magazines on all four glass waiting room tables. By now, the results should be in. It’s not like Jonathan _needed_ an MRI to know what’s wrong; he knows exactly where the pain is, and what he did right when it happened. It was his groin, the trainer even verified.

The T.V. in the lobby is muted, but the secretary at the front desk was kind enough to at least change the channel from something on MTV to the hockey game. It hasn’t started yet and the commentators are making their predictions on the matchups, at least Jonathan _thinks_ that’s what they’re talking about, he can’t know for sure because he can’t exactly _hear_ anything. The screen goes to commercials just as the doctor comes in. _About damn time_. And he has no new news to report, just the same old b.s. the trainer told him, but he hints at something that is more valuable than a verdict. All Jonathan really cares about is when he can play again. The doctor seems to be going in circles around answers, tossing around words such as possibly a week to probably a little while.

Finally, Bernier comes out and blatantly asks, “When can I get back on the ice?” The doctor seems to flinch at the question that he had to have known was coming. He replies, glancing at his clipboard for reassurance, “We’ll take it day-by-day and see how it goes.” Jonathan grins. It’s not so bad after all.

 

Bernie gets back to the rink just in time to catch the last three minutes of the third. The score is 2-3 when the Leafs pull Reims. The extra attacker does nothing and the Caps score an empty-netter to make it 2-4. The final horn sounds moments later and Jonathan refuses to endure another post-game Carlyle talk blaming James. Hiding in the healthy scratch room was a cowardly thing to do Jonathan admits, but he can’t see James so low right now. Another person he is hiding from is Carlyle. He knows what’s coming and he doesn’t want the words in his ears. Coach catches up with him at some point, pulling him aside.

Carlyle starts with the lame conversation starter of what did the doctor say. Jonathan knows damn well that Carlyle was most likely told the verdict a half-hour before Bernie was, but he answers the stupid question anyway along with the three follow ups on how he is feeling. Then Coach drops the bomb. Jonathan will not be joining the team on the next few away trips until he is fully recovered because of the swelling that the plane causes to the injured area that will delay the healing process further. Bernie nods silently, accepting the decision on the outside but fighting it every step of the way on the inside. No away trips means no James.

 

The Leafs take the earliest flight out of D.C. to Detroit later that afternoon. James soon finds out about Jonathan’s leave of absence when the other goalie does not join him on the plane in the seat next to him. He overhears Kadri a few rows up, catching a few phrases such as “back to Toronto”, “day-by-day”, and “swelling”. James just wishes that Jonathan had told him in person.

 

Bernier stares blankly at the T.V. as the Wings make their rounds for the home crowd salute. In the top left hand corner two little numbers remain. 2-3. It is the Leafs’ second loss in a row. Bernier glares down into his half empty beer bottle, sloshing the liquid around, chest feeling tight. James is probably getting railed right now. He’s probably kicking himself over his performance after Carlyle’s slap down. The worst is the silence of their teammates as Carlyle lists mistake after mistake of everyone in the room, pausing every couple to remind everyone of James’ poor mistakes. It’s not like James is the only one to get called out, but he’s the most frequent. And the worst thing about it is that no one does a damn thing. They all just sit there, staring at their calloused hands as the words flow viciously towards Reims, slowly digging him into a deeper hole that he can’t get out of.

And so, Bernier drinks, and he does it every time these thoughts squeeze themselves back into his head. He takes a sip the moment he sees James’ sad blue eyes or hears the “be good Reims” replaying through his mind. The conversation in the D.C. hotel room rewinds and fast forwards over and over again. It’s when James reminds Jonathan that April is still with him in the back of his mind, tormenting him, and the same words “only sometimes” haunt his thoughts and keeps him from passing out and dreaming about it. He knows he should call James. Jonathan eyes his phone on the coach cushion an arm’s length away, but he can never gather the courage to reach out, grab the phone, and call Reims. And so he drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't been able to update in a while, I've been caught up with finals! I'll try and update as much as possible, but I can't make any promises. There will be a lot of updates after the school year is over, so hang tight


	35. The Phone Call

James comes home late from Detroit. Jonathan is passed out on one of the black leather couches, several empty beer bottles on the floor next to him. Worn out from the loss and the flight, Reims glances over at the other goalie dispersed uncomfortably, an arm here and a leg strewn over there, and keeps walking to the master bedroom where he kicks off his shoes and crawls under the covers, clothes still on.

 

Jonathan opens his eyes to glaring sunlight and head pain. A song beats in his head from the night before. It’s slow and sweet, but Jonathan can’t remember ever listening to it in his life. Sitting up slowly, the world becomes dizzy and vague and the quiet noises from a city not quite awake yet sound faraway and foggy. The kitchen clock reads 6:09 and the empty bottles by his feet give him a reason to lie back down and forget about everything again.

Tonight, the Leafs will host Tampa Bay and Jonathan actually has to make an appearance at home games. With a dreamy pace, Bernier pulls himself off the couch, causing another wave of nausea to surge, and staggers over to the kitchen drawer with the Sudafed. Jonathan almost chokes on the little red pill when the door to his bedroom opens. James shuffles out sleepily, his hair a mess, one eye still closed. _When did he get in? No. Scratch that. How did he get in?_ Bernier stares. James looks awful. Dark circles are printed under weary eyes. He droops when he walks and looks like a sad wilted flower. Jonathan thinks he probably doesn’t look much better himself.

James smiles when he finally brings his eyes from off his own feet to stare at Jonathan. No words are said. Jonathan is angry for some reason. He doesn’t know why, he just is. It could be the sickness in his stomach. It could be that James didn’t call to tell that he was gonna break in to his house. It could be the injury. And it could be that he can’t get that fucking song out of his head. It’s not even a little bit of the song; it’s whole verses at a time going round and round in an infinite, painful loop.

Jonathan isn’t thinking when he dodges and pulls himself back from James’ attempt at a hug. Reims looks confused and watches Bernier, disappointed. Bernier takes a step back, suddenly feeling very sick, his stomach threatening to bring up the pill he just put down. The lights grow very bright for a moment, yet noise is nonexistent. Except, of course, for that stupid goddamn song. _“I see your blue eyes every time I close mine_.” His breath catches in his lungs as Jonathan brings his face up to look at James. Bernier’s chest tightens and his throat closes a little. _“I miss everything about you_ ,” the song vibrates through his head. The anger still pulses from deep within, but Jonathan is gentle as he wordlessly presses a soft kiss to James’ nose.

 

The day was doomed to be a mess as soon as it begun. The two goalies fight, mostly over stupid shit such as when they have to leave for the rink or what they want for lunch. Late in the morning, James and Jonathan are lying on the couch, James’ head in Jonathan’s lap, idly watching whatever Marvel movie Jonathan put on, when a commercial comes on.

“Can you mute it?” Jonathan asks tiredly, stretching out his legs.

“I thought you had the remote,” James replies, scrolling his phone, not really paying attention.

“I gave it to you,” Bernier says back, his tone growing a little sour.

“No you didn’t, I was in the bathroom at the last commercial break; _you_ muted it. _You_ have the remote,” James glances up briefly to look at Bernier.

“I fucking don’t,” Bernie growls, making a point to lift his hips up and check if he’s sitting on it. Then, he shoves James into an upright position, checking if it’s under him.

“I don’t have it. Stop being such an ass,” James is a little annoyed now. He was comfortable where he was before Jonathan uprooted him.

 _“I’m_ being an ass? You’re the one who wont give the damn remote-” Jonathan starts up again but James points toward the T.V. where the remote is sitting on a little table underneath.

“Oh,” is all Bernie says after that, but, the movie is back on and the commercials are over.

Later on, after lunch, the two are at the granite island in the kitchen. James is clearing dishes while Jonathan is messing with a little blue bottle of Aleve. He’s reading the dosage, mumbling to himself something about pain.

Bernier glances up from the instructions, “Do you think I should take one or two pills?”

“What’s the dosage?” Reims fiddles a little with one of the drawers, looking for a dishrag.

“The bottle says one pill once a day but the trainer says two pills every eight hours,” Jonathan replies.

“Take two then,” Reims says simply, ducking underneath the sink and searching through those cabinets.

Bernier is silent for a little while, still staring at the bottle.

“Shouldn’t you be icing your crotch or something?” James finally comes up with a little red, white, and blue cloth.

Jonathan glares and Reims smiles. “The trainer said I should be heating it.”

“ _Heating_ it? That cant be right,” James pauses, looking around for the soap.

“Well that’s what he said,” Bernie says, at last taking the lid off the little bottle.

“You’re supposed to heat before games. Ice is for the swelling,” James says.

Jonathan ignores him and measures out his pills.

“How many are you taking?” James watches Jonathan.

“One,” is all Bernie says, eyes down.

“The trainer said two,” James is getting annoyed with Bernier now. How is he supposed to heal if he’s doing the wrong thing?

“You seemed to think the trainer was wrong about the heating so he _must_ be wrong about the dosage too,” Jonathan’s face is serious.

Reims studies the other goalie. His hair is a mess, he didn’t bother to shower this morning or fix it. His stubble is getting a bit longer than usual and it doesn’t look like he’s going to gather the motivation to shave it any time soon. The alcohol has clearly wrecked his system for today and his dark eyes are red rimmed and he’s easily agitated.

“Jonathan,” James leans over the other side of the granite island, face to face with the other goalie, but Jonathan still isn’t paying attention. “Look at me,” he says gently. But, Jonathan is stubborn and keeps his eyes down once again. For some reason, he hasn’t taken his pill yet, even though he seemed pretty sure he was right by going with only one. He just stares at the little pale blue capsule in the palm of his hand.

“Jonathan,” James starts up and this time, Jonathan’s eyes snap up, dark and narrowed.

“What?” He hisses through gritted teeth.

Reims has been so patient with him all morning. He’s put up with his short fuse and his attitude, he always has. And something breaks down inside James. He isn’t used to getting angry, it’s not how he works, but out of all of the seasons he’s played in his career, he’s never felt more anger, more frustration, than in this one with Jonathan.

James steps away from the island for a moment and walks into space, staring out the big glass windows, flustered. He turns to Jonathan briefly, “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE DOING!” He pauses for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest, breath quick. Jonathan looks pissed. “ASK,” James starts to say but stops to take a deep breath, calming himself a little, “Ask someone who does, someone who’s had this pain before and knows what to do with it because you sure as hell don’t.”

Jonathan stares at James in silent abhorrence. “You don’t-” Jonathan’s voice is quiet, “You can’t mean?” His eyes are so dark, furious that James would even suggest it.

James nods.

 

Jonathan stares at his phone, moving it around in his hand. James left ten minutes ago to pick up some clothes at his apartment and get some coffee for the both of them. Jonathan knows that Reims just didn’t want to be there when Bernier makes the call. Bernier is lying in his massive bed with all the pillows, the one that James slept in last night. That stupid song has finally dropped out of his head and he can think clearly, or as clearly as his hung over mind will allow him to.

His eyes flick over to the dresser, specifically to the bottom left drawer, where Jonathan cleared some of his stuff out so James could keep a couple things in it when he stays over. Jonathan has a drawer at James’ apartment too, it’s a middle right drawer and it contains a couple pairs of socks (Bernier always forgets socks), a charger, and a couple other things.

Jonathan lets out his breath that he didn’t know he was holding and presses call. The name shows up on the screen and Bernier hesitates, thinking, as the ringing sound commences, of hanging up. He bites his knuckles to keep his finger from pressing the little red end call button.

The ringing stops.

And a voice pierces through the silence.

“Hello?” The voice says.

Bernier doesn’t dare to breathe, doesn’t dare to move. But then he remembers he’s doing this for James. He’s doing it because he needs to get better.

“Hi,” Jonathan says softly back.

Jonathan can practically see Quickie’s grin at the sound of Bernier’s voice.

“I knew you’d come around,” Quick says.

“I need help,” Jonathan says quickly before his brain can tell him to say anything else. Before he can say anything _desperate_.

“We all need help Bernie,” Quick says with a laugh.

“No I need,” Jonathan grits his teeth and stares at the ceiling, forcing the words passed his lips, “I need _your_ help.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Quick is in no way making this easy.

Jonathan is silent. He glares at the phone. After a couple seconds, Quick’s voice draws Jonathan back in, “Jonathan? You there? Did I scare you away? Wouldn’t have been the first time.”

“I don’t need this from you,” Bernier says, leaning back into the pillows, staring at the wall with the phone to his ear, “I can just google this shit, you are nothing to me.”

“Then why’d you call me? Why would you take the time?” Quick asks, voice solid.

Jonathan doesn’t know how to respond. The only noise is the sound of his heartbeat loud in his ears and the T.V. on in the other room. He was watching _Gladiator_ before he gathered the courage to do this.

“I didn’t do it because I miss you, that’s for sure,” Jonathan suddenly hears himself respond.

“Is that right? Is that the same excuse you had for hanging out in front of our locker room before that game a couple days ago? Because you _didn’t_ miss me? There’s no shame in admitting it, bud,” Quick is in no way trying to be humorous; his voice is dead serious.

“Like I said before, I need your help,” Jonathan says, annoyed.

“What if I don’t-,” Quick begins.

But Jonathan doesn’t want to hear it. The ringing in his ears starts up and the Sudafed does nothing to lessen it, “Jonathan,” Bernier snaps. He rarely calls Quick Jonathan. Normally it gets confusing when they both call each other by their first names.

“Jonathan,” Quick repeats back to Bernier.

“Don’t be an asshole, I just have like five questions and then you can get back to whatever the fuck you were doing, something useless no doubt, and you can leave me the fuck alone and we will never have to do this again,” Jonathan hisses.

Quick is silent, allowing Bernier to go on.

“I tweaked my groin, what do I do?” Jonathan asks plainly.

“What do you mean ‘what do I do’? How should I know?” Quick is clearly a little hurt by Jonathan’s previous out lash.

“You’ve pulled your groin more times than can be counted, that’s the only reason why I got to play last year, so you probably know all about groins,” Jonathan grins to himself because of the last part.

Quick remains silent on the other end.

Bernier sighs. He has to get Quick’s attention somehow. “Remember that time in Dallas? When you went into the splits the wrong way and wouldn’t tell Sutter because you wanted to play again on Sunday? And you said the only way to make the pain go away was if I gave you a blowjob?”

Bernie can tell Quickie is grinning into the phone.

Then, there’s more silence.

“Fine. I’ll help you,” Quick says, his voice vibrant again.

“Okay, so what do I do?” Jonathan asks, playing with a loose thread on the comforter.

“First…. did you really mean it when you said you don’t miss me?” Quick says.

Jonathan mumbles a couple curses under his breath, “Dammit… kind of not really?”

“You sound unsure… I don’t know if-,” Quick is already trailing from his agreement.

“You said-,” Jonathan cuts in sharply.

 _“Fine_ ,” Quick huffs, not letting Jonathan finish this time, “Did you take some kind of painkiller or anti-inflammatory?”

Bernier pulls out the little bottle of Aleve from his pocket and stares at it. _Pain reliever_ is what the bottle reads. James told Jonathan, before he left, not to take anything before he consulted Quick.

“No,” Jonathan says, rereading the back of the bottle for the dosage.

“Okay, do you _have_ any painkillers or anti-inflammatories?” Quick asks.

“Yeah. I have Aleve,” Jonathan says absent-mindedly. The bottle clearly says one pill every twelve hours, not two pills every eight.

“Perfect. Take two every six to eight hours, ignore whatever bullshit they have on the dosage,” Quick says.

“It says one pill every twelve hours,” Jonathan insists stubbornly.

“What did I say, Bernie? Two pills every six to eight. You have a groin injury not some b.s. mild arthritis pain. If we’re gonna do this, you’ve gotta listen to me? I know that’s hard for you because you have the attitude of a moody fifteen-year-old girl,” Quick says sternly.

Jonathan rolls his eyes, “What’s next?”

“Not so fast, repeat back to me, how many pills are you taking and when?” Quick is making this extremely hard.

“Are you serious? Two every six hours,” Jonathan holds the phone between his ear and shoulder, using his hands to open up the little bottle.

“Close enough. You should be icing at least three times a day. Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. Got it? Three times a day. How many times have you iced already today? Your trainer must’ve told you that at least,” Quick says.

“Uh, none,” Jonathan replies quickly measuring two pills out of the bottle.

“Shocker. That’s going to change. And when I say at least three I mean you should be icing as much as possible. And I know that you probably wont be leaving your house much, so you’ll have plenty of time to keep the swelling down while you’re sitting on the couch watching movies,” Quick’s voice is smug at how well he knows Jonathan.

Bernier is in the kitchen by now, filling up a cup with water and swallowing the pills, still listening to Quick’s voice in his ear.

“Other than that, just stretch a lot. That helps,” Quick says finally.

Jonathan shuffles back to his bedroom and flops down on the bed, reluctantly thanking Quick.

Bernier is thinking about hanging up at this time when Quickie starts talking again, “Wait. Don’t go.”

“Why?” Jonathan asks, grinning a bit to himself.

“Because I know that if you hang up, you’ll never call back again,” Quickie’s voice is soft.

“What is it to you? It’s not like you…” Jonathan doesn’t even want to finish that sentence. He really doesn’t.

“It’s not like I what? It’s not like I care about you? Why would you even think that? Of course I do. I always have,” Quick sounds hurt somehow.

“You only care for one reason,” Jonathan says.

Quick is silent. He doesn’t even deny it. Bernier is annoyed. He should have hung up. He shouldn’t have even gotten into the conversation.

“What about that time in Florida. Remember? You caught a cold and I stayed in bed with you the whole day? What about then? Did I only care for that one reason then?” Quick responds.

 

Jonathan remembers that day. It was warm in Florida, about 65 degrees and a gentle wind blew outside. But it’s not like Jonathan could experience the nice breeze. He had caught some kind of flu or some shit and was sitting in his bed, the one closest to the window, staring out into the wooded area just outside. Quick was in the bathroom, half-dressed for the optional morning skate, shaving. “C’mon Bernie, we’ll be late, and you know how pissy Brownie can get.” Jonathan just groaned and ducked his face into the pillows. Quick peeked his head out from behind the door and saw Bernier collapsed in a mess of sheets. He came over, sat on the edge of the bed and petted a hand through Bernier’s messy bedhead, “You alright?” “No,” Jonathan moaned from under the pillows. “My head hurts ‘n my body hurts ‘n I’m tired,” Jonathan whined. Quick immediately texted Brown telling him that the goalies were going to sit out the optional skate, meaning the skaters would have to work on breakouts the whole time without any goalies to entertain them, and got into bed next to Jonathan after stripping off his suit. He held Jonathan throughout the day, every now and then whispering something against the back of his neck.

 

Jonathan only nods even though Quick can’t see him through the phone.

“I-I have to go,” Jonathan’s voice sounds rough in his own ears.

This time Quick doesn’t protest, he just lets him go.

“Hey Bernie?” Quick asks quietly.

“Yeah?” Jonathan replies.

“Call back sometime, okay?” Quick says.

“Goodbye, Jonathan,” Jonathan whispers.

“Goodbye, Jonathan,” Quick mirrors back.

When James returns, smiling, two coffees in hand and a fresh suit on, Jonathan can barely return a weak smile. The guilt weighs him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super angsty I know.


	36. Alone

“He said you were what?” Jonathan asks, his voice sounds harsh and angry in James’ ears.

James is staring at his shoes. There’s a hole at the pinky toe of the left one and he wiggles it nervously.

“I mean it doesn’t define me as…” Reims begins weakly.

“James, what did Carlyle say?” Bernier’s eyes are venomous and his face serious.

Silence fills the room as James stares at the lid of his untouched coffee. Why did he get coffee? He doesn’t even _drink_ coffee. Oh right, he did it for Jonathan because the other goalie for some reason needs it to function before noon.

“James,” Bernier snaps and James glances up. He looks into Jonathan’s dark, unforgiving eyes with his own icy, blue ones.

“Just okay,” James says and it’s barely a whisper.

Jonathan says nothing after that; he just sits back in his chair, staring at the floor.

“I thought you were good,” Bernier whispers, messing with his coat zipper.

James sits and watches him, wordlessly. He doesn’t feel like talking about how he played in Detroit. He didn’t play his best but he wasn’t “just okay” as Carlyle put it.

 

The air is crisp and fresh and Bernier watches Reims during warmups from the bench. The fans crowding behind the glass knock and try and get Bernie’s attention but he doesn’t even spare a glance. His eyes focus forward on Mac doing some pointless stretching routine at the redline. He’s trying to make some brief conversation with Tampa Bay’s Ben Bishop, a 6 foot 7 monster, who looms above the other tiny goalie just on the other side of the redline. Bishop looks down at Drew, and from what Jonathan can tell, he’s not appreciative of Mac’s attempt to make friends, and skates away before he has even started his own stretching routine, to the other boards, leaving Drew by himself. Bernie shakes his head and averts his eyes to Reims.

He looks solid and alert tonight, movements very clear and crisp, and Bernier can feel a win on home ice. Every time James makes a glove save, he keeps the puck, placing it on top of his net, as though he’s keeping track. Jonathan has seen him do this before and never understood why.

After warmups, Bernie finds the teammates who aren’t playing tonight either, and they sit up high in a suite. As Bernier gazes out across the ice that was once his, he realizes that he doesn’t miss the games or the fans, only James. He misses the way James fits perfectly against his chest in those hotel beds or how James would grin at Bernie when he made his way over to the bench during commercial breaks. It seems like every other night James is stumbling in at one in the morning from an away trip, shuffling past Jonathan half passed out on a couch, mumbling something about another loss even though James probably knows that Jonathan watched the whole shit show on TV hours before. Assuming that Jonathan is out cold, Reims blindly makes his way through the dark apartment, pressing a sleepy kiss to Bernier’s forehead before dragging himself to the master bedroom. Bernie misses how they sleep together. Every night he wishes James would shove Jonathan over on the couch and fight for space just so Bernie could feel his body against his again. So he could rememorize his breaths and his twitches every now and then. So he could feel his warmth. Between away weekends, James stays a night, plays a home game resulting in a loss, and flies out to another rink that night for a game the next day.

Jonathan’s thoughts are interrupted by the ref’s whistle, and his eyes are drawn to center ice for the puck drop where he would watch as the well-prepared Lightening overwhelm the Leafs. The final score is 3-5, Tampa Bay. Jonathan feels sick. With jello-legs, he makes his way down the stairs to the locker room where he knows what will happen next.

The words pierce his ears when he hears them. It’s Carlyle’s voice that forms the words. At some point during his post-game rant, Jonathan can’t take hearing about how badly James played, and walks out, letting the door shut loudly behind him to announce his departure for him.

Jonathan waits in the car. He turns on the radio as loud as he can take and presses his head against the back of the seat. The window is cracked an inch or so and the cold Canadian air rushes in to meet Jonathan’s cheeks. He lets out a restrained breath, watching as it appears and condenses in front of him, fogging up the windows a bit.

 

James presses his hands into his forehead as the disappointing words hit and roll off him like water. On home ice, the Leafs lose to Tampa Bay and James knows Jonathan was high up above in a press box with the healthy scratches, tipsy and irritable, slouching and glowering at the shit game. After showers, Carlyle pulls Reims aside and the painful word comes up again. Trade. James doesn’t speak much when coach pulls him aside. It’s mostly just Carlyle telling James what he should do. James loves playing for Toronto; he can barely see himself wearing any other jersey, living in any other city. “Request for a trade this summer?” Is all James asks after Carlyle is finished with his spiel. That’s what he is to do about his situation? A sadness in the pit of his stomach forms and James doesn’t feel like talking much after that.

James and Jonathan drive back to James’ apartment in silence. Bernier rests his head against the window, chest rising and falling ever so slightly, breath fogging up the window. He doesn’t tell Jonathan, not yet at least.

 

James can’t sleep. The AC is too loud in his ears. Jonathan keeps twisting and turning uncomfortably by his side. His entire body is unbearably warm and so he opts to take a stroll into the brisk night air. The balcony is not very high up James admits, but he doesn’t care for the view as much as Jonathan does. The wind nips at his cheeks and bare toes. Stars dot the almost clear skies, only a few pale gray clouds are smudged against the blackness, and James peers out into the night. At this moment, James feels so alone, as if Jonathan is no longer enough. The injury clearly stomped Bernier into his place, who has become incredibly bitter and irritable, constantly filling his system with some type of alcohol to mask the pain. This leaves James by himself most times, nothing left to distract him from his poor play and now, the impending trade request. James can just imagine himself packing up his apartment as the summer brings upon the wrath of goalie trades. The thought of his apartment empty of everything rouses the terrible sadness within him. He would leave this second home of his, go some place new, some place without Dion or Kadri or Jonathan. And without Jonathan, he’d be back where he was in the beginning of the season.

When Reims shuts the sliding door and tiptoes back into the bedroom, Jonathan is fast asleep and hasn’t moved since, completely unaffected by James’ absence.

Ever so gently, Reims shakes Bernie awake. He’s grumpy and groggy and glares at James through slitted eyes.

“Jesus fucking Christ Reims what is it now?” Jonathan mumbles, words a tad slurred.

“I need to tell you something important, okay?” James says softly.

“Can it wait till morning?” Bernier says foggily, looking up at Reims, eyes misty.

James shakes his head and continues, “I’m requesting a trade after the season,” as if they were his own words and not Carlyle’s.

Jonathan is silent. He grins for a moment and sits up, “This is a joke right? This isn’t- This is- This-” Jonathan is still grinning, searching Reims’ face for humor where there is none.

“You’re kidding right?” Jonathan’s grin drops. He looks heartbroken. Absolutely distraught. Reims notices that Bernier is gripping the sheets all of the sudden, large amounts of the fabric balled up in his fists.

James shakes his head solemnly.

Jonathan turns angry, “No. This is a fuck up. Why? No. What? This is- _Why?_ WHY? FUCKING TELL ME,” Jonathan drags a desperate hand through his hair, eyes elsewhere, upset. The other hand still holds onto the sheets.

James doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know why. He can’t remember Carlyle’s reason why. Was it because he hasn’t been playing well?

“IS IT BECAUSE OF ME?” Jonathan’s head whips over to face James and a shaky hand comes up to brace his cheek whispering, _“It’s because of me isn’t it?”_

His eyes are so sad.

James says nothing and in this way he answers Jonathan’s question.

Jonathan looks horrified. He pulls himself out of bed, stumbling and tripping over his shoes on the floor next to the nightstand. He becomes violent, swiping stuff off of James’ dresser, pulling stuff out of Jonathan’s drawer, the middle right one. He grows frantic, pacing back and forth, constantly running his hands through his hair. Every now and then he looks over to James and his expression seems to break down a little more. After a while, Jonathan comes back to bed and collapses, burying his face into Reims’ shirt, breaths short and harsh. The night feels endless.

 

The morning comes all too fast for Jonathan. He wakes up in a continuous state of vertigo and stomach pain. By now he’s not surprised that he can’t see straight at first. Half-heartedly, Bernier gets ready for the morning skate, the first he will be participating in in a week and a half. His groin isn’t in the best shape he admits, but it’s not like a shoulder or a knee, it’s a pain that he can play through. A certain thought runs through his head during his morning routine. It’s a dull, sharp pain that digs deeper every time Jonathan’s mind wanders toward it. It’s the thought of James leaving, going far away, farther than the city of Toronto, and leaving Jonathan behind. He’d never actually believed that James would actually consider another franchise; James loves Toronto more than Bernier ever could and the more Jonathan keeps that in mind, the more he aches.

The familiar wind is a gentle caress against Jonathan’s cheek as he skates circles. His legs are a bit wobbly from underuse, but the muscles will return in time. The groin hurts, sure, but it’s not like Bernier’s going to tell anyone about it. The season is two weeks from being over and if this injury steals any more of his games, Jonathan will miss the rest of the season if he’s too careful. Besides, Reims is in need of relief, and the sooner Bernier returns, the sooner he can pull James into safe waters and maybe get people off the idea of trades.

After the on-ice, it’s only Bernie and a couple other guys in the weight room. Lups finishes with his workout and leaves, followed soon after by Kadri, Reilly, and Dion. Jonathan didn’t even notice him until now, but he’s sure he silently, and all too awkwardly followed the rest of the guys into the weight room after the on-ice. Mac makes his way from the corner of the room with the slide boards to the bikes where Jonathan is.

He’s clumsy as he gets on the bike next to Jonathan’s, attempting to get his feet, one at a time, into the little pedal slots; it’s embarrassing to watch Mac try and do simple tasks. He’s spending too much time on one little thing and Jonathan realizes he’s spending too much time watching Mac do this stupid menial task. All Bernier can think is that _this_ would be James’ replacement if Reims were traded this summer. Unbelievable.

Reims chose not to wake up early for the optional morning skate and is still asleep when Jonathan returns, so Bernier calls Quick up to give him an update, just as he had done every other day, only because Quick can help Jonathan and not because Jonathan wants to hear his voice. Bernier is distressed by Reims’ trade rumor and needs a distraction is all.

Tentatively, he presses the call button and Quickie picks up on the second ring. His voice is tired and scratchy, but nonetheless, happy to hear Bernier’s voice. Jonathan talks about his recovery and his morning skate and Quick listens quietly.

Quickie asks a question that takes Jonathan a bit by surprise and messes with him, “So how’s James doing?”

Jonathan pauses, staring at the hardwood floors of James’ kitchen. What is he supposed to say to that? “Good,” Bernier hears himself reply curtly, voice rough. James is not doing all that great but Quick doesn’t need to know that.

Quick seems to laugh a bit at that and pursues the topic further, “Everything going… _well_ with you two?”

Jonathan nods and bites his knuckles, suddenly perturbed, “Yep, perfectly well.”

Quick begins talking again about something else when James comes stumbling into the room. He looks tired and unprepared, and a little bit irritable. Jonathan hangs up the phone immediately, cutting Quick off abruptly, tucking it into his pocket and makes his way over to James. He presses his lips against James’ jaw, who mumbles something tiredly in protest but stays put. Bernie makes his way up to his earlobe, biting and pulling with his teeth and then locking their lips, licking up into James’ mouth. Reims grins slightly, leaning forward for more access, humming with approval of Jonathan’s sudden positive mood swing. This is the first time Bernier has touched him since his birthday and it’s long over due.

 

 

The Canadiens come to town two days later, beating the Leafs 3-4; James can feel the losses slowly piling up one by one. Jonathan and Reims don’t talk on the drive to the airport. Bernier puts on the country station that James likes and quiet music floods through the speakers; it’s one of James’ favorites, starting out with the quiet strum of guitar and Jonathan has heard this song oh too many times to know the words by now. He glances over at James in the passenger seat watching out the window, hoping to see a smile.

Jonathan waits a little longer and the words begin on the radio and Bernier joins in, softly singing to James, _“Hey pretty girl won’t you look my way_ … _love’s in the air tonight…”_ James picks his head up and turns to Jonathan tiredly. Jonathan continues, _“You can bet you’d make this old boy’s day… hey pretty girl won’t you look my way…”_

James grins a little, “You’re a fuckin’ mess.”

The car slows at a stoplight.

 _“Hey pretty girl can I have this dance? And the next one after that?”_ James is grinning full on by now. _“Gonna make your mind there’s a real good chance… hey pretty girl can I have this dance?”_

“You callin’ me a girl, Bernier?” James says cheekily.

“Well you sure kiss like one,” Jonathan says back.

James surges forward, pressing his lips to Jonathan’s, holding onto the front of Bernier’s jacket. The words drift out from the speakers and curl around them like a warm blanket.

Jonathan bites down and pulls back, face flushed, “You’re gonna be late.”

“I can manage,” Reims replies breathily.

“Wait… the best part is coming up,” Jonathan says, nodding toward the radio. The light turns green and the car speeds forward. Jonathan cranks up the speakers.

 _“Life’s a long and winding ride,”_ Jonathan blares, James joins in the next verse, _“Better have the right one by your side… and happiness don’t drag his feet and time moves faster than you think…”_

Bernier turns into the airport parking lot. The Leafs’ plane is waiting and most of the guys are standing around, faces to their phones, not filing on yet. Bernie turns down the radio and looks to James unbuckling his seatbelt.

Just as Bernier leans in one last time to kiss James goodbye, his phone in his pocket starts vibrating and playing a song, a ringtone, _“And I miss you I’m going back home to the West Coast… I wish you would’ve put yourself in my suitcase…”_

Reims pulls back, “It’s okay, you can answer it, we’ve got a little time.”

But Jonathan doesn’t want to answer it. He knows who’s on the other end and he just can’t talk to Quick right now.

“Uh, no, it’s fine,” Jonathan says uncomfortably.

“No really it’s okay just pick it up,” James says good-naturedly.

That stupid fucking song is going around in a loop now, _“I’m going back home to the West Coast…”_

Jonathan lets it keep ringing.

James stares at him in silence, figuring it out.

“Jonathan, who is it?” James asks slowly.

Bernier pulls out his phone to silence it.

James glances down at the name on the call screen. That stupid fucking ringtone repeats it’s self again, _“And I miss you…”_

“James it-”

Reims has had enough. He gets out of the car. The wind is blowing coarsely, ruffling his jacket. He eyes the plane warily as Bernier comes over, trying to explain.

“It was about-” Bernie says, eyes wild.

Reims turns to face Bernier now, “Was it really about your injury? Was it _really?_ Think before you answer this one.”

Jonathan is quiet for a moment. He can’t win in this conversation. If he says no, it’s clearly a problem, if he says yes, he’s lying because it was never about his injury in the first place; it was an out.

Bernier’s silence is scary and Reims has made his point. Jonathan’s palms grow sweaty as the phone in his left hand vibrates and a haunting song starts up for the second time, _“And I miss you… I’m going back home to the West Coast…”_

Reims glares at Bernier, unblinking. The space between them feels like miles and Jonathan can’t hide his shame this time.

“I bet it’s Quick . Why don’t you fucking answer it, Jonathan just like you always-,” James says venomously.

Jonathan becomes angry all of the sudden, “Just like I always what, James? Just like I always answer his calls? It was _your_ brilliant fucking idea in the first place.”

Reims is taken aback by Bernier’s tone, _“_ To talk about your _injury._ You act as though I don’t know what you two talk about.”

“What do we talk about James? Hmm? Stretching and pills? Yes, very terrible of me to bring up stretching and pills,” Jonathan hisses.

James looks pissed.

 _“I love you, standing all alone in a black coat… I miss you, going back home to the West Coast…”_ the ringtone echoes.

Reims looks down at the phone in Bernier’s hand, “Answer the phone, Jonathan,” is all he says quietly, grabbing his duffel and walking toward the plane where their teammates have begun to file on.

Bernier doesn’t even watch him leave, he just stares at the dark asphalt under the dimness of the parking lot lights. The ringtone finally silences and Bernier gets back into the car, and drives away.

 

James stares out the dark plane window at the streaking rain as the plane touches down in New Jersey. His ears finally decompress, he’s gotten used to the pain a bit since Jonathan’s absence means no Sudafed for the plane rides. The empty seat next to him is just a faint reminder of Bernie. He’s probably asleep right now in his own apartment, in his own bed. Reims glances down at his phone in his hand, wondering if he should or not. He doesn’t.

 

Jonathan stares up at the ceiling fan going round and round, his head swimming. The alcohol masks any shame about what happened at the airport, Jonathan can’t remember what anymore, and the dots on the ceiling seem to be moving and dancing across the cream colored paint. The sheets crowd the bottom of the bed where he kicked them when he got hot. Now it’s too cold, the fan stares down at Bernie, laughing at him. Too tired to move, he’s stuck in a painful limbo. James should be here to warm him up. James shouldn’t be on a plane. Why is James gone again? Where has he gone? The answers don’t come to Jonathan and he feels how alone he really is. Bernier has always liked James’ apartment more than his own, and it didn’t feel right to sleep in his own bed. Thank God James leaves his apartment open most of the time. On the counter in the kitchen is Bernier’s newly cracked-screen phone, left abandoned to charge for the night as a punishment.

 

James wakes up in a massive hotel bed that smells like lavender. The ceiling is painted with flowers and little golden dots. Reims blinks his mind awake. He checks around the pastel-colored room and sure enough Bernier is no where to be found, still back in Toronto nursing his injury, and his temporary replacement, Drew, is standing up and trying to tie his dress shoe dumbly, his tongue foolishly sticking out all while his face is glued to a muted TV. The other goalie’s dark hair is wet and dripping all over his dry suit and Drew is completely unaware of it. James doesn’t want to see Drew right now, not even a bit, and he pushes himself off the bed and goes to get ready for the morning skate.

The bathroom feels like a sauna. It’s muggy and steamy from Drew’s shower. The mirror has a little message written in the condensation in oddly nice handwriting: _Let’s go Leafs!_ After his shower, Drew trapped all the moisture in so he could preserve his mirror message. James glares at it then wipes it away. The lavender smell is extremely strong in this part of the hotel room and Reims figures out why. There are four little scented candles lit on the counter and James doesn’t think they’re hotel provided. He begins to shave, but after two swipes of the razor, a loud thud followed by an outcry comes from the other room. Reims races out of the bathroom, shaving cream still on his face, to see Drew on the floor, shoe in hand, still staring at that fucking TV.

“What was that?” James asks, eying Drew with little respect.

Drew turns to stare at Reims, at first confused with the question, brow furrowed, and then suddenly having a grand epiphany at what he meant, “I, uh, lost my balance and, uh, bit my tongue.”

If it wasn’t rude to face palm in front of stupid people, then James certainly would have, but for Drew’s sake, he refrains and returns to the bathroom, hissing inaudibly the only appropriate phrase his mind can process for such a unintelligent situation, “ _Fucking wish-killer_.”

James crouches over his pads, staring at the floor. The first period ended and it’s 0-1 to the Devil’s advantage. Reims’ breath evens out but his mind is racing, and drifts back to the playoff game against the Bruins about a year ago. It was game seven in Boston and the Leafs were up 4-1. James remembers how his heart thumped as Kadri scored that fourth, giving them a very healthy lead. But, something broke down within the guys. Slowly, the Bruins fought back and the goals started going in, one at a time, and soon, they were going into OT. And in OT, it was Patrice Bergeron. The crowd at the Garden was alight with excitement, on their feet cheering and yelling. James couldn’t hear any of it. He kept his eyes trained on the puck in the net. It was all over. Finished. There would be no Cup for him. The sinking feeling felt like a wildfire spreading through his body. This game, this loss, was James’ fault. He had brought the Leafs to the playoffs and he had dropped them from the playoffs. And that’s where Bernier comes in. It was mid-June, after the Kings were out of the playoff run as well, when he had heard about Jonathan’s trade. It was about the time that April had left when Jonathan came into the picture.

The boys line up to get back on the ice and James absent-mindedly follows. His head feels light and dizzy. He stares at the white wall in front of him and obediently strides forward when Phaneuf taps him on the back of the leg.

Why has James wasted so much time on Jonathan? It seems no matter how much James gives Jonathan, Bernier will always turn to Quick in the end. And James will most likely be playing for a different team next season, so why has he spent so much time building up this thing they have just to have it ripped apart by the seams by Jonathan’s distraction and James’ trade?

The noise of the arena is loud in James’ ears as he steps onto the fresh surface. The lights look brighter than usual tonight, reflecting off the ice, almost blinding. The noise grows loud then quiet all at once. Reims can’t remember when it happens, but suddenly he’s sitting on the bench. The scoreboard burns red. 3-0. Drew is in net. He looks so small, so insignificant. Where did James’ helmet go? Wasn’t he just between the pipes? His chest tightens and heart sinks as the realization sinks in. The two goals getting passed. Carlyle pulling him for what seems like the twentieth time this season. With all the fans inside the Prudential Center, James feels all alone.

Bernier turns off the TV and Reims’ apartment grows quiet with nothing but the low drum of freezing rain against the window. On the marble countertop in the kitchen, his abandoned phone vibrates, as it has been all day. Bernier glances at it vacantly before shuffling over to catch a glimpse of the bright screen. He sifts through his ignored messages and missed calls, none from James. The wind growls outside and the fridge hums absently. Jonathan isn’t even thinking anymore when he reaches into the fridge, hoping it’s still there. Sure enough, on the back of the shelf hidden behind a gallon of milk and a carton of eggs, the bottle of unopened and untouched champagne sits. He wonders for a moment if it could have gone flat in the span of several months. Ignoring the thought, Bernie grabs the bottle, not bothering to get a cup, and settles down on the dark blue carpet in the living room with his back to the sofa, staring out at the gray city blanketed in a wet frozen layer.

On Thanksgiving, Bernier put the champagne away with hopes that it would last till the end of the season and then they could celebrate. As he pulls back the protective foil, he begins to laugh very quietly to himself. The phone vibrates remotely against the marble. Jonathan peeks over his shoulder briefly before beginning to gently shake the bottle, gripping the cork with the bottom of his shirt and slowly easing it out. The phone echoes again. Bernier refuses to look this time, staring at the material in the carpet. The cork gives with a satisfied pop. The third time the phone goes off, Jonathan pushes himself off the floor, only wincing a little bit, and grips the phone in his left hand, hurling it at the wall, watching it drop. Then the apartment is silent once again. Peaceful, yet uneasy and Jonathan feels a chill run down his spine and knows how lonely he actually is in Reims’ big apartment and empty building. The neighbors haven’t shown any sign that they really exist and the only thing that seems real anymore is that fucking phone constantly alerting him.

Without hesitation, Bernier picks up James’ laptop off of a side table and flips it open, returning to his seat on the floor next to the bottle. His fingers move fast and soon James’ first interview of the season is playing. Reims’ voice is soft and calm as usual and he answers the questions easily. Jonathan sits back and takes a long sip from the open bottle, shutting his eyes and just listening to James’ voice in his ears. The rain continues to battle the windows and when the battery dies in Reims’ computer Jonathan falls asleep to the rhythmic tapping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't had time to update but summer is here and I will have a lot of time now!


	37. You're Worth It

James pauses in front of his door, sifting through his key ring for the right one, a single hallway light illuminating his space. He looks forward to a bed all to himself and the silence of an empty apartment. The door opens easily and James pads in, kicking off his shoes to the side. The rain beats against the windows loudly and the wind howls. As Reims makes his way through the blackness, he stops momentarily when there is a disturbance from across the room that is neither James nor the weather.

A head pops up from behind the sofa. Drowsy eyes meet. James stays quiet and so does Jonathan. Bernier looks a mess, absolutely wrecked, hair tousled and cheeks a bright peachy pink, not to mention his runny nose and slitted eyes. He just keeps walking, ignoring the other goalie and his unwelcome presence in _his_ home. He slips off his pant legs all too slowly and shucks his shirt carelessly to the floor. With leaden legs, James climbs into his unmade bed, all the covers kicked to the bottom. Using the rest of his dwindling energy, he pulls a thin sheet around himself, staring at the wall blankly when he can feel Jonathan’s presence at the doorway.

“Hi,” Bernier’s voice is very soft.

James doesn’t even blink, just staring forward, emotionless. Jonathan doesn’t deserve James’ attention, not now, not ever.

Reims can feel Bernier’s gaze from across the room. The other goalie shifts his feet, scuffing them against the carpet anxiously.

“I fucked up,” Jonathan says louder this time. It sounds cracked, broken and a little off.

James sits up and turns his head toward Jonathan, studying him. Bernier’s hair is unnecessarily sweaty and his chest rises and falls quickly. He’s seen this appearance from Bernie too many times. “You’re plastered,” James says, glaring. The last thing James wanted Jonathan to do was drink his screw up into the ground.

“Only a-“ Jonathan hiccups mid-sentence, “A lil’ bit.” When Bernie takes a step away from the doorframe, Reims realizes that he was using the frame to hold himself up. Jonathan’s steps are clumsy and he isn’t trying very hard to steady himself, bumping into pieces of furniture, growling each time he does and then not adjusting his ineptness after each collision. Very awkwardly, Jonathan makes his way over to James who just watches tiredly. James frowns when Jonathan flops back on the bed, perpendicular to where Reims is sitting.

“What do you want?” Reims asks, observing Jonathan’s diluted face.

“I’m apology,” another hiccup, “I’m apologizing,” Jonathan stutters out.

“For what?” James asks, more challenging than pleasant.

“For lots uh things,” Bernie flicks his eyes up to catch Reims’ glaring. With worried eyes, Jonathan looks to the other goalie, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be if you’re just gonna do it again,” James’ voice grows angry fast.

Jonathan’s eyes grow very wide but he says nothing. He looks very remorseful, pretty common for someone who’s so lit he can’t control what he’s doing. God knows what is running through his jumbled thoughts. His breathing, occasionally interrupted by a hiccup, competes with the loudness of the rain outside.

“I didn’t want-” A hiccup forces Jonathan to pause for a moment to rethink his sentence, “I didn’t think this would happen.”

Bernier’s face is sad, his eyes dark and pleading for James’ attention. With a hopeful intention, Bernie attempts to reach his hand up to try and intertwine his sweaty palm with James’. His fingers awkwardly slip between James’, his skin sticky and damp as usual. Reims just stares at it. Their hands are almost the same size, James’ a little bigger than Jonathan’s, but fit rather nicely together. Jonathan never lets Reims do this and it leaves him in awe for a few seconds. The anger within James starts to break down, as it always does. Reims ends up silently forgiving intoxicated Jonathan for the moment, solely because he’s really fucking out of it, but in no way pardons sober Jonathan.

“You need a shower,” James says, swiping a finger across Jonathan’s forehead, shifting several damp locks away from his eyes.

 

Jonathan refused to shower without James present, but at the same time, James was not inclined to shower _again_. He bargained with Bernier and opted to stand sort of out of the way of the line of fire of showerhead, not fully naked and not fully clothed, dressed in a pair of boxers and an undershirt. That doesn’t stop Jonathan from trying to connect their lips, dripping water onto the floor and a once-dry Reims.

When Bernie eventually stops fidgeting, he blinks up into the shower stream, confused, “Why’s it raining? The weather,” Another hiccup interrupts, “was nice all day, no?”

Reims brushes Bernier’s hair out of his face and attempts to assist in shampooing his hair.

“We’re inside, Jonathan,” James says, massaging the shampoo into the other goalie’s hair.

“Why’s it raining inthe apartment?” Bernier sinks back in the shower stream, accidentally directing it toward James.

Reims cusses as the front of his shirt bleeds clear from the water, “Fuck me… We’re in the shower, bud, watch where you stand.”

Jonathan presses his forehead against the shower wall, “Then why d’you have,” hiccup again, “your clothes on? Didn’t plan on the rain either did ya?”

James grins, pressing a chaste kiss in between his shoulder blades. He slowly massages the soap into Bernie’s skin, loving how Jonathan leans into his touch. As the water washes away the soap, James forgets his anger and frustration and just focuses on Bernier before him, laced and tanked beyond help, yet handsome as ever with his soaked hair slicked back and eyes, red-rimmed but gorgeous.

Reims ignores his clothing and his self-control, as Bernier always showed him how to through example, and pulls Bernie’s lips to his, a hand sturdy on the back of his neck, tugging playfully on the short strands. And then everything happens all at once. When Bernier breaks the kiss, surprised, eyes blown with excitement and anticipation, James pauses for only a moment before he peels off the clothing wetly hugging his skin.

When he rejoins Bernier in the shower, Jonathan holds him close, chest to chest, and looks him in the eyes before whispering sincerely and solemnly against James’ lips, “I missed you.”

And by the way that Jonathan kisses him and brings him closer, hands everywhere, all over at once, the way that he fucks James with his hands against the shower wall on either side of his head and sighs out James’ name when he comes, Reims knows that he did.

The window is cracked ever so slightly and the cold air wanders into James’ bedroom. Jonathan complained it was too hot to sleep and refused to even try unless the window was opened, despite the freezing rain still going strong outside. Reims is freezing, wrapped up under the covers, Jonathan’s arms holding him tightly and radiating a steady source of heat. Reims wonders if the window was a sneaky ploy for Jonathan to get close to James. Sneaky bastard. Even blitzed, completely gone, Bernier still has his crafty ways.

“Are you still mad at me?” Jonathan’s quiet voice whispers into the thick of Reims’s shoulder.

Reims halts for a moment and flicks his eyes down to Jonathan who is staring blankly into a pillow at the moment. Jonathan picks up on the delay after a few seconds and snaps his eyes up. Reims looks into those dark, deep eyes and shakes his head before pressing a very light kiss to Jonathan’s forehead, gentle, barely brushing against his skin, but enough for Jonathan to believe him and understand just how much Reims missed Jonathan too.

 

Morning comes quickly and James is up easily. Jonathan, not so much. Reims waits in the kitchen, knowing that Bernier will rise when the coffee is ready. When he’s had his own tea and the coffee is pending, James walks around his apartment, picking up the crap off the floor that Jonathan must’ve put there in his drunken stupor. The coffee loudly brews into the pot and Reims notices Jonathan’s very broken phone on the floor. It’s screen is grossly cracked, clearly beyond use, and it looks so bent out of shape that Bernier could have driven over it with his car and the story would seem applicable. He gingerly picks it up off the floor, along with a couple pieces of glass from the screen that gave up on holding on.

Jonathan shuffles in moments later, rubbing his eyes. He says nothing when Reims rests his hand against his lower back, bringing him close, and kisses him hard. When the other goalie releases him, Bernier goes over to the coffee and wordlessly pours himself a cup. James studies him. He’s a terrible mess, hands leaving sweat marks on the countertops, cheeks flushed, and by the way his eyes shift constantly around the room as though he’s trying to focus on a single object he’s probably dizzy out of his mind. His hair is also a tad too long. At least Reims can start with that and move to the other issues later.

Bernier is pulling out the sugar from an overhead cupboard when Reims comes up behind him, lips on his neck and hands around his waist.

“Hi,” James whispers into his ear, kissing the side of his jaw, sending shivers down Jonathan’s spine.

Jonathan’s voice doesn’t want to work at the moment, so he just tries to keep his composure for the moment.

“I was wondering if you wanted to get a haircut,” James asks softly, as though Bernier would explode in anger at any moment.

Jonathan shrugs a little.

“I know this really good place down the street,” James continues.

Bernier grabs the sugar and turns to Reims, standing face to face with him. He says nothing still, but narrows his dark eyes a bit.

“There’s another guy across town who does a decent job,” Reims is growing a little uncomfortable with Bernier’s harsh gaze and by the way that Jonathan rolls his eyes and almost seems to groan at the suggestion, Reims isn’t hitting the sweet spot on good ideas.

“How about the girl Dion recommended? Dion says she’s great,” James is running out of options. Jonathan can tell.

“I get my hair cut in Mississauga by one guy and one guy only,” Jonathan takes an unimpressed sip of coffee and James is sure Bernier burnt his tongue on it because there is no way it cooled in time.

“Mississauga? Jonathan, that’s over thirty minutes away with no traffic, c’mon we’re not driving all the way out there,” James tries to get Jonathan to crack, but his expression stays unfazed.

“You’re the one who said I needed a haircut, not me,” Jonathan puts his coffee down on the counter. It’s probably too hot to drink, which he must’ve figured out on his own.

“Yeah because,” James runs a hand through Bernier’s hair.

“So?” Jonathan challenges.

He’s quite irritable from this hangover and is making it as apparent as possible.

“What if I cut it?” James suggests.

Jonathan is silent. He doesn’t really look any angrier, which is a positive thing. He grabs his coffee again and takes a small, suggestive sip.

Jonathan raises an eyebrow.

James grins.

 

“Is this okay?” James can’t stop grinning.

“Yeah, yeah just get on with it,” Bernier says more to his third cup of coffee than to James.

Bernier is sitting in chair, borrowed from the kind neighbors because James doesn’t have any low enough, rotated to overlook the view. He sips quietly as James turns the razor on; it buzzes quietly and Bernier tries not to wince.

James isn’t nervous; he just wants to be careful. Jonathan is pretty hung over and barely conscious, but he probably can tell if he looks good or not.

“Just go already, Reims, we don’t have all day. We’ve gotta be at the rink at four,” Bernier says. His voice seems to be lightening up a bit, which is a plus.

And then James’ hands are moving, slowly but effectively. Hair falls off piece by piece and hits the floor.

When James switches from the razor to the scissors, Bernier starts up again, “I swear to God if you cut an ear off.”

James laughs a bit at that and then begins to cut. The first lock he completely underestimates and accidentally cuts it too short. He stands there dumbly holding the shock of hair, staring at it.

Bernier is perturbed by the unsettling silence, “What did you do?”

Reims drops the strand in his lap and then cuts several more equally large locks so there is no turning back.

Jonathan stares at the hair on his lap and cusses loudly, “Dammit Reims, these are new fucking pants and you’ve gotten hair all over them way to fucking go.”

Reims grins. Bernier can’t even tell that he’s butchering his coif.

It doesn’t look _that_ bad, James concludes as he washes off his scissors. Jonathan is in the bathroom checking himself out and Reims hasn’t heard any death threats coming from the bathroom, which is probably a good thing. Jonathan enters moments later, smiling a little, the happiest he’s looked all morning.

He makes his way to Reims, who turns toward Bernier, and hugs him close, kissing him on the cheek, “Thank you.”

 

Jonathan’s debut that night, against the Blue Jackets, after his injury is no different than the games James has been facing in the weeks that Jonathan was sidelined. The team is still playing awfully and the goalie is left alone once again. Jonathan lets in four goals and an empty-netter, seeing 48 shots and receiving the second star of the night, yet he’s not upset, as always. James sees this as arrogance as first, then, simply, a state of peace since he’s not facing a trade rumor or a chance of losing his starting position. The worst Carlyle could do to Jonathan is not start him for the next game.

But, Carlyle doesn’t even do _that_. In Philly three days later, Bernier starts again and the Leafs lose 4-2. James grits his teeth from the bench. The losing streak bumps up another tally to seven and after the plane ride back to Toronto, James and Jonathan drive back to James’ apartment.

Bernier walks through the door first, kicking off his shoes and tossing his keys on the counter nonchalantly. James follows him quietly, tired and irritable, shutting the door behind him. Jonathan is being way too loud and energetic at such a time of the night.

“God, that fucking losing streak is killing us, Reims,” Jonathan says, shucking his jacket and tossing it on the back of the couch.

James says nothing.

“How many games has it been?” Jonathan asks.

“Don’t worry about it,” James says crossly under his breath.

“Why not? It’s partially mine, I’ll take responsibility for it,” Jonathan says good-naturedly.

“No it’s not,” James hisses, undoing his scarf.

“What?” Jonathan picks up on James’ tone.

“This is my losing streak, not the team’s,” James says darkly.

“Not true, it’s everybody’s,” Jonathan replies calmly.

James snaps, “I did this to us, it’s my fault, I just handed it off to you now and you’re not doing such a great job with it yourself.”

Jonathan is surprised by this, “What are you even talking about? Did Carlyle tell you this? Don’t listen to him, Reims, fuck him.”

“Shut up you don’t know what you’re talking about,” James growls, he hasn’t moved from his spot five steps out from the doorway since he walked in.

“I’m serious, don’t listen to him, he doesn’t know,” Jonathan says, stepping closer and putting a reassuring hand on his forearm.

“You’re a fucking joke,” James pushes his arm away, glowering.

“What the hell I’m just trying to help.” Jonathan’s face is dead serious.

“Well stop it then, because you’re trying to help me when you can’t even help yourself,” he shoves at Bernier, emphasizing his point.

Jonathan looks pissed now as his face darkens. He says nothing.

“You heard me. I see how you hesitate when you slide to your left. You’re faking and I know it. You’re not healed, you’re just selfish.”

And Bernier can’t even deny it, he just stands there, glaring back at Reims, saying nothing and suffering in his own silent resentment.

James continues, he’s on a role, “You pretend you’re okay when you’re not. I don’t need you to come out of injured reserve to protect me, Jonathan, I can do everything perfectly fine my own damn self!”

And with that, Jonathan grabs his jacket, slips on his shoes, and leaves, slamming the door on his way out.

And James feels the remorse immediately. He’s not an angry person; his fuse is 10 times longer than Jonathan’s short one. But the season, in all its fallen and disgraceful glory, came crashing down on Reims tonight and Jonathan just happened to be there to see it. He knows he could have said so many other things to hurt him, that was just the bare minimum, those digs were just the tip of the iceberg. It would’ve taken Reims two extra seconds to bring up Quick and make matters ten thousand times more painful and complex.

James stands in his dark apartment for several long moments as he listens to Jonathan’s footsteps fading away down the hallway and down the stairs before he slowly removes the rest of his outerwear and shuffles to his bedroom.

As he passes by his dark kitchen, solely illuminated by the lights flooding in through the window from a city still awake, Jonathan’s decimated IPhone sits. James picks it up, being careful not to get any glass in his hand, and goes to bed.

But he can’t sleep.

He’s embarrassed and ashamed and most of all, he doesn’t want to lose Jonathan. Even though it was a dumb fight and didn’t mean anything, still, something could have hit Bernier the wrong way, and then it would have been over. Done. Finished.

James tries to defend himself, saying Jonathan asked for it for being so arrogant and careless with his words, but James’ conscience always catches up with him, reminding himself what he said and how much of an asshole he was.

It’s 3:30 in the morning when Jonathan opens the door, groggy, pissy, and yawning, to James staring at his shoes, already apologizing quietly.

Jonathan just stands there, squinting into the light of the hallway before pulling Reims in for a tight hug, whispering, “I understand,” into his shoulder.

“We fight about the stupidest shit,” James says softly.

“But, you’re worth it,” Jonathan replies and James doesn’t want to ever leave this moment with Jonathan right there in front of him, so tangible, forgiving him so effortlessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys.... this fic is gonna be ending real soon.... the season is almost over..... But there's still so much to get through yay. I'm thinking about adding all the picture inspirations I've had while writing this fic, how does that sound?


	38. The Moon

It’s hard for James to be with Jonathan. It kills him, seeing Jonathan, so obviously plagued by his injury, starting more games than James does at full strength. Every night before bed, Jonathan strings an arm around Reims’ waist, bringing them closer in the dim light, so close he can feel Bernier’s heartbeat thumping against his back. He always faces the window now, doesn’t really want to look at Bernie and be reminded of the failures that come with being second best to the person sleeping soundlessly behind him. The sheets are always a mess between them, and never really do much with the AC blasting on high and the temperatures staying low outside.

It’s times like these, in the late stages of the night or the early hours of the morning, when Bernier is long passed awake, breathing huskily into the muscles of James’ back, burning heat holes into his skin, when James wonders why he’s with Jonathan.

He can only recollect the very bleak early parts of the season when he used to stare up at his ceiling, missing April, wanting, begging, for someone else to love instead. And then he came. God wrapped Bernier up in a pretty little blue bow and dropped him at the Leafs’ doorstep one day and when Jonathan popped out of the wrapping paper on the first day of training camp, he claimed James as his own. Before he knew it, Reims began to feel his chest tighten with the sound of Jonathan’s voice in his ear and his footsteps hitting the floor rhythmically in time with his own and Bernie would just show up unannounced and Reims never questioned it.

Jonathan was different than everyone else. He took control of the situation and didn’t let the little things bother him. James would stand in front of a mirror for twenty minutes, attempting to tame his ridiculous bedhead with water, making himself late in the process when Jonathan would just roll out of bed and be right on time, not caring who saw him or what he looked like. And James envies him for it. It’s an evil, dark jealousy, slowly dying and growing dimmer the more James falls for Jonathan, but sparking back up again, threatening to catch fire every time Reims spots something he wants but lacks. And Bernier is oblivious to it. The closer James gets to Bernie, the less he despises him, but the more upset he gets with himself for letting Jonathan in like he did with April, and for letting this _particular_ person in. The exact human being who has single-handedly knocked him off the totem poll, slowly and painfully for the past seven months.

 

This morning, James wakes up suddenly and abruptly to the sound of Jonathan yelling.

“We’re late!” Jonathan shouts from the other room.

The sound of small objects hitting the floor in one swift rhythmic wave followed by indistinct cussing in French can be heard.

Reims sits up groggily. The room is a complete mess and James is too out of it to decipher whether it was from last night’s make up sex or Hurricane Bernier in the room over, still cussing up a storm loud enough to wake the Leafs’ dead playoff hopes.

Reims dresses mechanically, stopping only to admire the bruises placed deliberately on his hips and collarbone. No doubt Bernie has some of his own hidden beneath his own freshly pressed button up and silver tie. Jonathan is never hesitant to offer James clean clothing for the games the next night, saving Reims a trip across town, and even taking the liberty of picking out an outfit for him. Today it’s a blue button up and a navy blazer with navy pants with a white belt and a white tie. His fashion sense is never off the mark.

“Hurry up, Reims! We’re gonna be late!” Jonathan shouts.

James reprimands himself for not setting an alarm and letting Bernie be in charge of anything remotely important. He struggles with tugging on his shoes, briefly glancing at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It reads 7:03 AM. Four whole hours before the optional morning skate and nine hours before they have to be at the rink for their game against the Wings.

James stops rushing and narrows his eyes at the glowing red numbers. “Jonathan, you dickhead we’re early!” James shouts back.

“No we’re not!” Jonathan insists.

Reims comes into the kitchen to Bernier lying on his stomach on the floor, picking up individual spilled Aleve pills and delicately putting them back in the bottle, his tongue stuck between his teeth out of concentration. Reims just stands there, watching him, angry yet fascinated.

“What. The fuck. Why would you wake me up so early? Are we going to the skate this morning? I thought we had come to an agreement,” James sits back on his heels almost to Jonathan’s level, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Bernier grabs the last of the pills and springs up off the floor, dusting his shirt off and popping two of the gross germy floor pills into his mouth, swallowing them dry.

“Something came up,” is all Jonathan says before grabbing his keys, shutting off the light, and motioning toward the door.

 

“Things don’t just ‘come up’, Jonathan, what is this?” James is not amused.

Bernie pulls out of the parking lot and onto the road, the sun is just coming up over the horizon. He’s fidgety with excitement, eyes bright with anticipation.

Reims doesn’t appreciate being ignored and waits for Jonathan to get bored of his stupid secret and share it.

He only does so when they’re five minutes away and James is on the verge of strangling Jonathan just to wipe that ditsy grin off his face.

“Franson,” is all Bernie says at first.

Reims waits for Jonathan to continue but he doesn’t until they’ve finally pulled into a parking spot and they’ve gotten out of the car. The sun slowly spills out across the parking lot as they make their way to the back entrance.

“His girlfriend, Mandi, she said she wanted a puppy so they got this little,” Jonathan is motioning with his hands now as they walk through the halls, he’s practically trembling, “little bulldog pup and he said that Mandi’s letting a couple people see the lil’ guy but we have to get here early because everyone else is gonna come later and he’s gonna be tired by then and this is important, Reims and you know how early Franny comes in, we had to beat the crowd. We can’t miss this.”

Jonathan’s grin is splitting across his face, and James is stunned. He silently forgives Jonathan for the moment, his insides all soft and bubbly.

“Alright,” is all James manages to say, tired, but not entirely disappointed that he’s here now.

They turn into the locker room, and Gardiner, Rielly, and Bozie are already on the floor with the puppy, Bruce, all grinning and talking, dark circles under their eyes as well. Jonathan is pumped, and he rushes over to the other guys, face lighting up. Everyone gets enough pictures to fill their photo cache three times over and Jonathan was right, by the time that most of the guys actually started arriving, Bruce was already passed out in Jonathan’s lap, who insisted they shouldn’t wake him up.

 

James is angry and he didn’t even play. That’s part of the reason why he’s angry. The other is that Jonathan played so _bad_ , yet Carlyle would never pull his precious little golden star now would he? And James sits there, staring at the ice in front of him blankly, wondering about next season. Where he’d be a year from now, six months from now, maybe even three months from now. For all he knows, he could be shipped out somewhere else as soon as the season ends in two weeks. And although it hurts at the moment, it hurts more not to be able to play his best and constantly stand in someone else’s shadow as a team that was so strong and collected a mere year ago collapses in front of his face and he can’t do anything to stop the grains of sand from slipping through his fingertips because he doesn’t even start anymore, let alone make a huge impact in games.

James barely watches that game tonight against the Wings. He promised himself that he’d never zone out in a game and he’d always fully support his teammates in any way he could, but such a vow was made a long time ago when he was starting every game and his backups, Gustavsson and Scrivens, were in his current position. But tonight, he barely blinks when the Wings scored and wasn’t paying attention when the Leafs scored until the buzzer went off and scared the crap out of him long enough to get a glimpse of the replays on the big screen. All he knows is that he played better than Jonathan did against the Wings. Jonathan saw as many shots as Jimmy Howard did, letting in twice as many goals. Forget the playoffs, this losing streak has taken Toronto by storm and Reims no longer cares, just standing by as everything else comes down around him.

The locker room is dead silent. For the first time all season, Carlyle comes into the locker room and rips Jonathan to shreds. Bernier looks like he could go off on Carlyle at any moment, but just sits there instead, glaring at the Leafs logo on the floor, blaming the loss on the carpeting. And Reims feels a little guilty. Hadn’t he wanted this all along? Hadn’t he wished that Jonathan would collapse and suffer as Reims has been suffering all season long? He finally got it. Right here and now. When Carlyle leaves, the silence returns. No one says a word to anyone else and the sounds of Velcro from shoulder pads and laces loosening from skates are the only noises. Bernier has a sort of angry force field radiating out from him and all the guys just keep their distance; they know better than to try and fix a pissed off goalie. He tears off gear and cusses loudly to himself. Reims hasn’t really ever seen Jonathan in such a state after a game; normally he doesn’t blame himself in any circumstance, so such a sight is rare, and a tad frightening.

 

Jonathan slams the car door, “Drive,” he huffs angrily.

The inside of the car is dark and the streetlamps in the parking lot provided little light. James sits staring at the dashboard, the keys still pressed firmly into his palm from when Jonathan practically embedded the damn thing as they were walking out the back entrance. He’s upset with Jonathan.

“You said you’d never get angry with yourself over a loss,” James says and it’s quiet. If Jonathan, the one who’s supposed to be all calm, all benevolent, all omnipotent, can’t keep his cool after a string of three bad losses, then how is Reims supposed to do the same?

“I said _drive_ ,” Jonathan hisses, cocking his head away from the window a little as if James didn’t hear him the first time.

“You said you’d never blame yourself,” James says softly again, not moving a muscle.

“I don’t _care_ what I said, James, just fucking go!” Jonathan whips his head to face Reims.

Jonathan’s eyes are red-rimmed, dark, and serious. He can’t tell if he was crying or not. When was the last time Jonathan ever cried? Reims can’t remember.

“You said that it was never your fault,” James’ voice is smooth and even, still gentle, not cocky or taunting. It sounds… disappointed.

“I- I- It wasn’t!” Jonathan stammers, voice cracking, eyes flicking elsewhere.

“You said that you always did your best,” James says quietly and the words hit Jonathan like a rock.

His injury has become a barrier and it’s affecting his play. It may fool the fans and it may fool Carlyle and it may even fool the trainers, but James isn’t blind. He knows every which way that Jonathan moves and when he sees a laggy push or a staggered recovery, something isn’t right even if Jonathan claims otherwise. Bernier can take all the Aleve he wants and stretch until he’s stringy and flexible and strong, but that injury will never heal without rest.

James’ face is so serious and Jonathan is embarrassed. When he finally lifts his eyes to meet Reims’ he feels shame and the guilt.

“I couldn’t,” Bernier breathes out brokenly, pressing his face into the front of Reims’ suit, breathing harshly and loudly.

And James allows Bernier this because there’s nothing wrong with breaking down and letting go and all the times that Jonathan has held it in and brushed it off is released in one instant with the tears and anguish. When Bernier finally lets go and leans his face against the window, James drives away.

 

Bernier is passed out on the couch, a couple closet blankets tucked loosely around his sore body, still wearing all his nice dress clothing that he refused to remove when he collapsed. His face is shoved into a decorative throw pillow and half his body is falling off the side of the cushions. He breathes loudly and tosses often. James watches him wordlessly in his dimly lit kitchen. City lights from outside bleed softly through the windows and dance across the floor.

James hesitates no longer. He needs help. There’s no one else to ask anymore. Swiftly, he picks up his phone off the island and presses the name, listening as it dials loudly in his ear, eyes never leaving Jonathan.

“What the… Reims?” His voice is tired and stressed, but not angry in any way. It’s two hours earlier in Edmonton, but of course he’s in bed early. He’s probably got a game tomorrow.

“Sorry to wake you,” James whispers.

Jonathan’s silhouette stirs on the couch and a pillow falls off the end. Reims shuffles quietly over to the sliding door and tiptoes out onto the balcony where cold air rushes to meet him, reminding him that he’s wearing a thin t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms in 20 degree weather. The wind blows gently and the city is surprisingly quiet for a 2 AM following normally loud Saturday nights.

“Why’d you call?” the man on the other end asks. He’s probably rubbing his eyes, trying to hold back a yawn.

“I need advice,” James says gazing out at the stars dotting the clear sky, shifting his feet to avoid the cold.

James can tell Scrivy is grinning on the other end, “I suck at that.”

“Well give me your best anyway. How do you deal with being a backup after being a starter?” James asks.

Ben Scrivens came to Toronto about the same time that James did. They were in sort of the same position that Bernie and Reims are in currently, except a little more relaxed and without Carlyle there to make things complicated. Gustavsson was there too before both Scrivens and Reimer joined the scene and played the shaky “starting position” until management decided Jonas wasn’t enough, pulling up two young guns with Canadian background. Gustavsson was sort of around a year a go, but filtered in and out until he was finally traded to Detroit at the end of the season, Scrivens was mainly the number 2 behind Reimer. Originally, Scrivens started all the games and claimed the ever shaky “number 1” goaltender position, but Reimer proved himself and became the permanent starter. Scrivens was then traded in exchange for Jonathan Bernier, last season, to the kings as their backup goalie until Martin Jones was brought up, a rookie, to back up Jonathan Quick, and Scrivens was more recently traded to Edmonton in January after Devan Dubnyk was traded to Nashville and a starting position opened up with Viktor Fasth to back him up.

But, it’s not like James is keeping track of Ben or anything. He is just aware of his situations constantly and takes note of them. Why wouldn’t James be interested? They spent several years playing side by side and have become great friends in the process. Bernier is indirectly tied into the whole mess when he was traded for Ben last June.

Ben sighs into the phone, laughing quietly to himself, “I should have expected this call with all the BS I’ve been hearing on the news lately about your… predicament.”

“It’s a mess I know,” James says absentmindedly. He misses the sound of Scrivens’ voice. It’s been far too long and Reimer stopped counting the days.

“It’s hard, James, to transition. You probably know that already, so why’d you need me to say it?” Ben sounds tired, he probably wishes he were asleep right now and not dealing with James’ problems.

“I didn’t call you to hear you repeat what I know. Tell me something I don’t know,” Reims replies, peeking in through the screen door to make sure Bernier is still out cold. He’s flat on his chest now, face tucked into the corner where the couch and cushion meet, his back rises and falls with each inhale.

Ben takes a deep breath and James listens into the phone, “You’re gonna wanna fight it at first. I don’t know how long you’ll have the strength to do it, but there will come a time when you don’t have the patience or the motivation to keep up with the other guy and that’s when you accept the position as back up. And by doing that, you’re no less of a player and you’re no less of a person, you still have the same amount of talent, just less opportunity to play and more opportunity to support everyone else. And that’s the most difficult part of all, y’know, when you’ve got to stop being selfish and worrying about yourself and how many minutes you’ll play or if you’re gonna begin that game or finish that game and start focusing on the team as a whole. And it sucks. It sucks so bad when you realize that you’re not as important and not as big as you want to be. And the other guy, Bernier, he may get all the head taps after the game and all the credit for the wins and all the attention from the reporters, but you, James, you’ve gotta remember that you’re still a part of that team and there’s not one damn person in this league who could replace you, not me, not Gus, and not Bernier. You got that?”

James nods at first and then grins, leaning his back against the glass of the door, “Yeah, I got it, bud.”

And it’s quiet for a little while after that but neither of them hang up. The sound of breathing and an occasional sniffle reminds the other that they’re still awake.

“I missed you, Ben, it’s been… different,” James finally says. The moon is a sliver high in the sky tonight and James admires how bright it is, even when it’s so small and insignificant, and how it can compete with the glow of the city lights and still manages to come out on top. James is always secretly rooting for the moon at times like this.

“I missed you too, James, Edmonton doesn’t seem as fun without you,” Ben doesn’t hold back a yawn this time and James realizes how late it’s getting.

“Hey, one more question before I leave, is that okay?” James suddenly remembers something important.

“Yea, anything,” Scrivens replies tiredly.

“Is Jonathan Quick a jerk?” James asks, purely out of curiosity and the need for a second opinion.

Ben replies without hesitation, “Yep. Total dick.”  
“No kidding,” James replies fondly, smiling sadly to himself and suddenly thinking of Jonathan, “Well that’s good to know. Goodnight, Ben, it was real.”

“‘Night, James,” Scrivens replies and there’s only a moments pause when neither of them really want to hang up until the line clicks silent.

James stuffs his phone into his pajama bottoms pocket and glances back up at the moon one last time, wondering if there will ever be a time when the moon is no longer brighter than the city lights below.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really trying to make it so this fic is as long as possible, so I'm adding more little details to draw it out. I really had fun writing this chapter, and Scrivens is such a chill guy. Sorry this chapter was kind of angsty and not action-packed, I wanted to save that for the next couple of chapters and not jam it all in at once right now. And also, it's okay to post comments and stuff like I don't know what I'm doing and it feels really good when you guys kind of shift me in the right direction as to what y'all like. Thanks!


	39. What You Do To Me

March comes to a close with the Leafs flying to Calgary for a game on April 1st. The hotel isn’t far from the airport and James spends the majority of the bus ride glancing over the shoulder of Kadri in the seat in front of him playing 2048. The sky is a tad cloudy, rain a possibility later on. Reims makes his usual entrance, cup of green tea, picks up his key from the front desk, and shuffles to his room, toeing his shoes off and napping sprawled out on the grand hotel bed, fully clothed.

Jonathan is watching, undetected, from an armchair in the corner. James’ toe twitches in his sock, his face squished against his left arm with the silver watch on his wrist. His chest rises and falls through his suit, the room seems to sigh with every inhale, and Jonathan has to hold himself back a little so he wont get up and run a hand through Reims’ mussed up hair.

The time passes and when James wakes up, it’s dark outside. The sky has cleared up, mostly, a few scattered clouds against a purplish night. Jonathan is sitting in an auburn-colored chair angled toward the television when Reims pushes himself into a sitting position. Bernier is scrolling through his phone, half-watching a soccer game on TV, glancing up every now and then but clearly not that interested.

“What time is it?” James asks, yawning into his sentence halfway.

Jonathan grins, speaking very softly, “9:33. Hey, wanna go down to the pool? Just for a little while.”

James sort of stares. No one every goes to the pool on trips.  Why would he ever even _think_ to recommend something so stupid and absurd. It’s an unspoken rule that no one ever chooses to break. And the pool is probably closing soon…

“Sure,” Reims says without hesitating. Breaking the rules has become a lot more fun since Jonathan arrived.

 

Apparently, Bernie had planned this out beforehand, pulling out a pair of red trunks for James, wearing a pair of light blue ones himself. Jonathan goes on ahead down to the pool, leaving James times to change and “wake up” a little more. Reims is still contemplating why he’s doing this as he inserts his keycard and pulls open the door to the muggy, rather poorly lit poolroom. Lights illuminate inside and around the pool with a large sliding glass door to the outside on the right covered in a thin layer of white, frosty condensation.

Bernie stands near the edge of the pool, back to Reims, relaxed, just staring at the clear, perfect surface. It sort of reminds Reims of a newly hosed sheet of ice, just waiting to be marred. Jonathan doesn’t turn to James, staying completely still, muscles in his shoulders lenient. His dimples are prominent at the small of his back, skin smooth in the soft lighting, body framed perfectly by the dim contours bracing his form. The room is silent, the only noises coming from the humming of a filter. The more time James spends admiring the muscles in Bernie’s calves, the more restless he becomes.

“Where are the guys?” James suddenly wonders aloud.

Jonathan doesn’t turn his head, saying casually, “Team dinner at Olive Garden.”

_Fucking tease, he knows I’m watching him_. “Aren’t you going to get in?” James asks rather impatiently and with less composure than he would have liked.

“Yes,” Jonathan says blandly and curtly, making no move to do so. You can hear a pin drop once more and James is gone. He takes four long strides towards Bernier before shoving him hard and tripping ungracefully into the water.   
Jonathan breaks the surface firmly, tossing up water over the sides, sinking low to the bottom. When Bernier comes back up for air, he’s grinning, pulling a cool hand through his wet hair, blinking away the water in his eyes. Nonchalantly, Jonathan swims away from James toward the other end of the pool eyes still on Reims, luring him in like a fish to a hooked worm. Reims makes his way to the far edge and sits, feet in the water, waiting for Jonathan to come to him instead. But, Bernier is stubborn and dawdles, doing his own routine first, floating on his back, treading, and spitting the disgusting germy water playfully. It’s all too much. Suddenly Jonathan is right next to James like a shark circling.

“Guess what day it is tomorrow,” Jonathan flashes his teeth, eyes squinting, smiling along with the rest of his face.

“Tuesday,” Reims says flatly, swishing his feet around in the water mildly.

Jonathan ducks under for a moment, resurfacing closer to the wall this time, shaking his head like a wet dog, sending droplets flying. His mop of hair is practically dry and dizzyingly fluffy. Bernie smiles up at James, “No, try again.”

Bernie grabs one hand onto the edge to steady himself, wiping a hand across his eyes in the process.

“Wednesday?” Reims asks with even less enthusiasm the second time around.

Jonathan’s brightness doesn’t waver when he laughs for a moment before saying, “No, it’s April!”

James sort of forgot about that whole month up until now. He flicks water at Jonathan half-heartedly with the side of his right foot in an attempt to tell him _stop being such an inconsiderate dickhead I really liked her okay_. Jonathan replies sweetly by grinning a little bit out of the side of his mouth before grabbing the thick of James’ calf and yanking him in forcefully.

James slides in smoothly with minimal injuries, the water swirling around him gently like a calm spring shower unlike Jonathan’s twirling backbreaking tsunami mess he previously committed. The temperature is cool and his muscles turn to silk as the water collides against Reims’ skin. When he comes up for air, Jonathan is still grinning like the fool he is, hands bringing Reims closer.

“Better,” Jonathan sighs, breath ghosting over James’ lips.

Bernie’s hands are sliding down James’ hips, teasing fingers dancing under the waistband. The water is cool and Jonathan’s hands are hot, burning and tingling where they race. James inhales roughly as Bernie shifts his focus to his collarbone, tugging his short hair in the process; any angry thoughts vanishing to mush as Jonathan’s mouth occupies his mind. Jonathan’s hands make their way lower, pulling James down for a kiss, mostly teeth and tongue, grabbing James’ ass, eliciting a low moan from him.

Before anything scandalous can commence, the lights in the poolroom shut off completely (probably from an impatient hotel employee, pissed that there are people in the pool several minutes before closing time or an embarrassed life guard), leaving James and Jonathan in the dark aside from the murky lights from the pool itself. It’s just bright enough for James to catch a glimpse of the heinous blush slowly fading from Jonathan’s cheeks as he hauls himself out of the water and towels himself off.

 

April comes the next morning. It doesn’t feel any different than a regular March day. But, Jonathan feels it. He feels a sense of misplacement in a month with the same name as James’ ex-girlfriend.

James realizes that things don’t feel as bad as they used to. The hole is patched up with crooked stitches from Bernier’s handiwork; not the prettiest to look at, yet surprisingly stable. And April is no longer a name that hurts when it’s said.

For Jonathan, he can’t hide the discomfort of being the second best, the backup to April and whatever James still thinks of her. At the team breakfast in the Calgary hotel, some people notice.

“You’ve been a tad quiet this morning, Bernie, everything okay over there?” Dion asks from a little way down the table.

Jonathan nods, entranced by his open lid coffee cup.

“Rough night?” Franson nudges an elbow into his side.

Jonathan doesn’t respond fast enough because Kessel is cutting in with a sharp laugh, “That’s weird, Bernie never has trouble picking up the ladies. You went to that club across the street, yea? The one Bozie recommended?”

“Uh yea,” Jonathan clears his throat after a moment of silence.

“You and Reims went, right?” Bozie asks, mainly concentrated on the last cheerios escaping his spoon as he chases them around his bowl of milk.

“Yea,” Jonathan says gruffly, watching Kadri rip open a packet of sugar with his teeth.

James lifts his head, from peanut buttering his toast, at that. Jonathan lied to the guys. So they’d have the night alone. When does James ever go to clubs? He hates them. They’re so fucking loud and smell like piss, sweat, and alcohol.

And the guys all know this too.

“Reims? Going to a club? HA!” Kessel snorts. A couple of the others grin too.

Bernie looks miserable.

“But Reims has a girlfriend, he’s given us that excuse plenty of times,” Bozie pushes further, setting his bowl and spoon aside.

Jonathan rubs an eye boredly.

The table is silent.

“Yea, April,” Franson answers for Jonathan, sipping his own coffee with interest, “Mandi is good friends with her.”

“We, uh, broke up,” James suddenly cuts in before the conversation gets any further, “A while ago.”

The table is silent once again.

“So, did you get any last night?” Gardiner asks quietly, almost innocently.

James glances up from across the table to meet Jonathan’s eyes briefly, discreetly, “Yea, I did.”

The guys break out into cheers, patting Reims on the back excitedly.

“Who was she?” Joffrey is grinning the most out of everyone.

Jonathan looks petrified, almost sick.

“A smokin’ hot brunette,” Reims grins and that seems to satisfy most everyone.

Jonathan just stares down his coffee cup, as if it will disappear at any moment if he blinks.

 

Jonathan heads back to the room soon after the morning skate. Carlyle had made the once optional morning skate mandatory; as if it had to do with whether or not they’re gonna suck tonight. James went off with Joffrey to God knows where, so Jonathan is stuck in the hotel room, the same vicious thoughts running through his head in a spiteful rhythm.

_James doesn’t really care about you. What are you to him? That’s right. The other goalie. He’s got April, you **know** he still loves her. Why else would he get so upset when you mention her name? He’s not over her. He couldn’t give a toss about you. Why should he care about your success? He thrives off of your failures, Jonathan. Oh, you thought he had **feelings** for you? How cute. It’s just like how you thought Quickie had **feelings** for you. Forget it. No one could possibly love you. There’s too much to fix with you; you cheat too much and you lie too much and you shouldn’t even try._

And Jonathan believes it all.

 

James is confident. Carlyle is likely put him in net tonight against the Flames. After Bernier’s performance against Detroit, it would be ridiculous not to. James is ready. His mental concentration is impenetrable. But, Carlyle doesn’t see it. And Jonathan starts. And Jonathan _wins_. And Jonathan ends the losing streak. And James is angry. He’s never been more jealous of Jonathan than when the team comes to _him_ after the final horn sounds. And James wont even give the other goalie a head tap. He lingers on the ice, pretending like he congratulated Bernier, convincing the fans that he did, but Bernie knows he didn’t. There were 18 guys who skated up to Bernie grinning, shouting a, “Good job, Bern!” and none were the other goalie.

James undresses quickly, staring at the floor the whole time, ignoring Jonathan’s glares from the neighboring stall. Jonathan doesn’t know what it’s like. He’ll never know what it’s like.

All the guys go out to the club across the street that night. _All the guys._ Including a slightly angry Jonathan and a silently reluctant James.

The inside of the club is dark and the air feels _moist_ like someone is breathing down your neck every three seconds. It’s the type of place that has sticky floors and you can’t decipher where that smell is coming from or whether it’s you sweating or the girl grinding up against you. The guys file in all at once in one big ol’ mess, clashing with the people on the dance floor, calling out for rounds of beers and shots. James ducks between teammates and couples, making a beeline for the bar. Flashes of Jonathan pouring him a cup of airplane alcohol into a disposable cup creep into his mind as he sits down on a stool, making shaky eye contact with the bartender, “Something strong. Now,” he demands, glancing briefly over his shoulder. He’s tried about everything at this point. Can’t he just add drinking his problems away to the list already? Jonathan does it plenty of times and he just broke the losing streak. Maybe it’ll give him the ability to make a couple saves for once.

James doesn’t want to think when he grabs the cold glass, downing it in two gulps. It’s disgustingly bitter, which probably means it’s really concentrated and close to the kind of shit doctors rub on your skin before they give you a shot.

“Another,” James coughs out, slamming down the glass, ignoring the dizziness coming on already.

The music gets loud fast. The beat thumps through James’ veins and pretty soon his heart is pumping to the pulse of the music blaring in his ears. After the third drink, the pain still won’t vanish and he can still see Bernier making that save and Bernier poke-checking that puck behind his eyelids when he shuts them tight.

Jonathan had watched James walk through the door of the club, but Reims has suddenly vanished into thin air as Bernie walks about aimlessly. Their teammates dance and drink as though they just won the Stanley Cup. Jonathan feels like he should be happy _with_ them for a moment, but then he remembers. _James doesn’t really care about you._ And he needs to find James. He needs to fix this; because the way that James couldn’t meet his eyes in the locker room and the way James pretended Jonathan didn’t even _exist_ seems to prove that he really doesn’t care anymore and Jonathan can’t stand it. Every now and then, he takes a glass out of one of his teammates’ hands, smiling, then downing it quickly. Soon enough, that familiar buzz starts up and his thoughts become louder and louder.

And then there’s James, sitting at the bar all alone, staring blankly at the five empty glasses staring back at him. Jonathan’s feet move faster than his brain and he’s grabbing Reims’ arm and pulling him from the bar and the glasses.

The floor is sticky in the bathroom too. Jeeze, don’t these places have a janitor or something? The two of them are both shitfaced drunk, but can still seem to make the important decisions. Jonathan pulls James into the furthest stall on the end, shutting the door loudly behind him, fumbling with the lock that seems to be moving. Jonathan is rough, shoving Reims against the wall, crushing their mouths together. James pushes back, fighting for dominance, tugging on Bernier’s hair enough to hurt, moaning into his mouth. Bernier breaks the kiss, glaring at James with wild eyes. Reims only grins back at him, lips kiss-swollen, eyes filled with lust.

Jonathan doesn’t make his next move fast enough and Reims is biting his neck, making Bernier hiss at the contact. His breath hitches momentarily, James rubbing his thigh against Jonathan’s erection, grinning against his skin. But, James stops.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Jonathan growls, pressing James back up against the wall, licking a thick line up his neck, biting up his jaw.

Reims brings their hips together messily; eliciting a cut off moan from Bernie before the other goalie finally takes the hint, undoing his belt.

Reims declines Jonathan’s offer to open him up, “I want it to hurt.” _Like this win did tonight,_ James thinks.

Bernier is fast and pumps hard into James, who bites down hard into the thick of Jonathan’s shoulder to stifle his moans.

“I want them to hear you,” Bernie breathes out, “I want everyone to know what you sound like when I fuck you.”

James gasps, throwing his head back against the wall.

Jonathan doesn’t last much longer after that, with all the noise that James is making, coming hard with James stroking himself through his own orgasm.

James leans against the cold, moist wall as he’s coming down. Jonathan is next to him, cleaning himself up with a ball of toilet paper. Their breathing is heavy, unsynchronized. Jonathan looks over to James and James looks over to Jonathan.

Through Jonathan’s eyes, James’ looks pissed, like he wants to punch Jonathan right in the fucking jaw.

Through James’ eyes, Jonathan looks suspicious, as though everything they had just done means nothing and that there is some huge ass secret that James is hiding.

It’s raining when Reims opens the door onto the street. There’s no one outside, even the Leafs’ bus has left. The two walk back to the hotel in the dark downpour, the rest of their teammates still grinding on the dance floor against a stranger or downing their fourth beer.

They walk side by side, shoulders almost touching, hands brushing every now and then. Their shoes hit the wet asphalt in rhythm, the wet material of their suits swishing loudly with each step.

“I hate that you won tonight,” James says quietly, abruptly.

“I hate that you’re not over April,” Jonathan hisses back enviously.

James almost stops walking for a moment, “What makes you think that I’m not over her?”

“You get angry when I mention her,” Jonathan says simply.

“You get angry when I mention Quick,” James responds coldly.

Bernier is silent.

They keep walking, the rain filling the emptiness around them.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jonathan spits out, suddenly fired up again, looking over to glare at Reims.

“You got to play tonight even though you played like crap against Detroit. How is that fair?” James replies with just as much venom. He stops walking and shoves Jonathan hard to get him to stop walking too.

“You got to play like crap for seven games straight. How is _that_ fair?” Jonathan growls.

“You were _injured_ , what else was supposed to happen? It’s not like after you fuck up the whole world has to wait on hold until you’re better,” James snaps.

“This isn’t about my injury-,” Jonathan begins.

“Of course it fucking is! You shouldn’t even be playing!” James throws his hands up in the air.

“I’m not injured, asshole!” Jonathan steps closer to James, getting right up in his face.

The rain beats down hard around them, but neither seem to feel it.

“Keep telling yourself that,” James says, barely a whisper, eyes cold, dark.

Jonathan is at a loss for words. This was supposed to be a night of celebration, a night of excitement, but is ending up in ruin.

Bernier drops his head a moment, resting it against James’ forehead, the rainwater trailing from James’ hair and down Jonathan’s face. How did all of this happen in the first place? How did they get to this point? They used to be so _happy_. Was James always this upset?

The rain continues to fall steadily.

Bernie brings his eyes up to catch James staring back into his. Jonathan melts into his gaze, bringing a hand to his cheek, dragging a thumb through Reims’ stubble and even in the heat of so much disappointment and anger James leans into his touch.

James feels so empty all of the sudden, so alone, but wouldn’t want to be anywhere else at the moment when Jonathan leans in close to press a sincere, gentle kiss to his lips between the raindrops. Bernier pulls back, eyes trained, and his voice sounds strained and harsh when he whispers against James’ skin, “You don’t know what you do to me,” before pulling James closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was kind of angsty right? It has to be, this season has been ridiculously upsetting for everyone, especially James, and he hasn't really shown any real emotion until now. I'm not completely satisfied by this chapter, it makes me feel a bit of "I don't really know what I should be feeling about this" every time I reread it, probably because I sort of made Jonathan the dependent one for the first time, like I showed that he's actually human with real emotions. I really liked the whole pool thing at the beginning and the rain thing at the end. Also, I played the song Flipside by Lana Del Rey the whole time I was writing this so ya, give it a try maybe while reading it.


	40. Why Aren't You Trying?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready. You had to expect that things were gonna get cray soon. The end of last year was pretty fucking messy so here we go.

The Bruins come two days later. Toronto is peaceful when they arrive, as if the city doesn’t know what’s coming, with a clear and silent sky, like the calm before a storm. James can’t remember a time he’s felt more anxious; Memories of last year’s playoffs flood randomly, sending shocks through his body, enough to make him sick. He isolates himself from the team the whole day and the minutes pass by sickeningly slow.

Jonathan went down the street to the Starbucks to “clear his head” and James lies, back against the couch at Jonathan’s apartment, a blanket draped halfheartedly across his lap, staring at the ceiling, the same position he’d been in months ago, thinking about April, praying for the thoughts to go away. Things have been hard lately. They don’t touch each other much anymore, hell, they hardly even talk anymore. James craves the familiar caress of Jonathan’s calloused hands against his skin, gentle and rough all at once. Two days feel like eternity and slowly, but surely, the two are drifting from each other like lost icebergs.

There’s suspicion between them again. Jonathan finally came right out about April and James couldn’t believe it. He said that they couldn’t live the way they are if he can’t trust James. There was yelling, of course. And shoving. Jonathan was so close to James, if he just leaned forward a few more inches, their lips could have connected. But, there was no love to this argument. And when James brought up Quick, there was no forgiveness either.

Jonathan stands, hands in his pockets, waiting at the little counter for his coffee when his phone vibrates against his thigh. A little annoyed, he pulls the cracked-screen iPhone out, mumbling a couple unintelligible cuss words under his breath. The screen is dimly lit and the glare from the decorative overhead lights don’t help his cause. Using his hand to shield the screen Bernier can barely make out the words onscreen.

 

**_J.Q.:_ **

**_Can I call u in a couple mins? Just arrived at San Jo hotel. Need a hand w/ something ;)_ **

 

Jonathan glances around the coffee shop, his face turning delightfully pink. No one seems to notice him slip out the side door. The only trace that he was ever there is the forlorn call from the barista, blankly looking around, searching the faces surrounding the counter for an answer, reading and rereading the name scribbled on the cup in sharpie, “Jonathan! Jonathan?”

James is so close to falling asleep when the door handle clicks open and shoes scuff their way across the floor. The other goalie is breathing hard, like he ran up the stairs. James doesn’t waste his energy to roll over and observe Jonathan, so he just waits for him to make his way into his line of view. Bernier’s back is to him at first, but Reims can see the undone scarf and unzipped coat. Jonathan seems to be doing pointless stuff at the counter, shoving stuff into his coat pocket that he could probably do without, sliding his scarf up into a ball and than chucking it at a particular area from across the room, at least that’s how James sees it… completely pointless like most of the things Jonathan does these days.

Bernier turns abruptly and finally and when he sees James watching him with tired eyes, he looks taken aback, as if he didn’t expect Reims to be there. His cheeks are flushed, lips red, eyes wide and shiny with larger than usual pupils and a wrinkled and creased shirt. His hair is tousled and messy, and his nose is damp, like a mischievous puppy. He looks guilty, the look he wears more frequently now, when he smiles shyly, eyes darting to the ground.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” He asks, taking a step back. James ignores that insecure move and continues to look at him up and down. There’s something he can’t place about his appearance, but something is out of place. Jonathan shucks his coat, placing it on the back of one of the chairs.

Reims lets his expression soften, and his eyes drop, ignoring his suspicion. Jonathan makes his way over to the other side of the room, kicking his shoes off and flopping back on the other couch, turning on the TV. James falls asleep what feels like moments later, back facing the other goalie.

 

It’s just after noon when James wakes up without reason. He’s in the same position from when he nodded off. Without warning, a sudden sense of lust and want overcomes James, a need to feel. He pushes himself upright and looks to Jonathan unperturbed by James’ sudden awakening; a hand reclined behind his head, the other scrolling through his phone, the remote resting on his chest rising and falling evenly. Reims kicks the blanket off and sprints, with remarkable speed for someone who was just out cold a minute ago, across the room to where Jonathan is situated.

“Woah-,” Jonathan glances over as James rushes about. Reims wastes no time leaping onto the couch and straddling Bernier’s hips. “What the…?” Bernier laughs a little bit when James begins to suck a bruise against his collarbone, “What are you doing?” His voice is completely light and airy, the opposite of what it was the last time they spoke.

Reims says nothing, grinding his hips down against Bernier’s erection. Jonathan is grinning against Reims’ lips, watching his every move, enjoying James’ sudden mood swing. Reims sits back further, to undo Jonathan’s pants, but, to his surprise, Jonathan bites down hard, enough to draw blood, on James’ bottom lip between his teeth, pulling back from the kiss, yelping out in pain.

“What’s wrong?” James asks, leaning back on his heels.

“Mmnothing,” Jonathan replies, shaking his head, grabbing a fistful of Reims’ shirt and bringing their mouths together again.

They make out like this for a while. There comes a point when James moves forward again, sitting in Jonathan’s lap. Bernier draws back from the kiss for a moment, head down, hissing.

“What is it?” James presses.

Jonathan winces.

“My knee,” he growls.

James removes himself from Bernier’s lap, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the couch, eying Jonathan. Bernie rubs careful circles against the inside portion of his knee, gritting his teeth.

“Are you okay?” James asks, barely a whisper.

Bernier is cussing loudly to himself, “Does it look like I’m fucking okay, Reims?” Jonathan’s eyes are dark, unforgiving.

Reims says nothing and Jonathan’s face doesn’t soften. The tension is palpable. The afternoon crawls by slowly.

 

James stares at his shoes as he walks through the back entrance of The Air Canada Centre. It’s silent without all the fans and the Bruins bring back some hard memories. It wasn’t this silent last year after game 7. The voices still echo in his ears, jarring cold, dark images from the back of his brain.

April wasn’t in the apartment when James got in at 1 AM in Toronto. She didn’t leave a note or anything. Her red heels were missing from the closet, which meant she was probably at the club, where she went more frequently those days. She spent less and less time at home with James and more time out and about, shopping and going to yoga, anything not to be sitting around doing nothing. James didn’t think much of it at first, her absence wasn’t anything to take note of, and it was too late when he did pick up on her hints, why she was constantly buying new clothes and wearing a little more makeup than usual, looking good for someone else.

It was a Friday night in the middle of June. James had just come back from a talk with Carlyle, his manager, and a couple other important guys at the rink with good news. No trades would be going on with the Leafs’ number one, at least not that summer.

Reims entered his apartment around 8, the sun had just set and a clear, pale bluish night was setting in. A single kitchen light illuminated Reims’ entrance. April was nowhere in sight but her red heels were kicked off carelessly by the door. He heard them before he saw them. It was a man he’d never seen before and one he’d never see again. When he walked into the bedroom, they stopped.

All she said was a single name, barely a whisper, like a prayer, “James.”

And James left as soon as he could. He slammed the door and sprinted, sprinted through the lobby and into the hot night air. The stars twinkled down at him, offering no comfort, no solace. The hints all came back to him: the scent of cologne that almost passed as perfume, her leaving the apartment without warning continuously, her inability to return James’ love (a more recent symptom).  He should have known that they could never be together after that first night at the club. After a while the street signs grow unfamiliar, his thoughts grow foggy, and he turns back. The apartment is empty of the two, her red heels still lingering at the door. James grabs them by the straps, opening the door to the balcony, and chucking them, sending them soaring into the night air.

“Reims! You okay, bud?” Bozie asks, looking up from tying his skates.

“Yea… just focusing,” James’ tongue speaks fast but his mind moves slowly.

Bozie just nods in reluctant approval.

Jonathan is quiet in the stall over, already done getting dressed. He sits, perfectly content with himself, a calm smile on his handsome face. James wants to say something, he wants to so desperately. They sit in silence.

Jonathan has a strong start. He’s facing a lot of shots and making all the big saves, keeping the crowd on the edge of their seats. James doesn’t want to watch, but his eyes always end up on Jonathan, whether the puck is in his end or not. The Leafs are actually playing like they did last year, playing to win, playing as a team. But, good things never last. It’s rather early in the third when it happens. It’s so sudden, so out of place when it does happen that James doesn’t know how to react. It didn’t look like anything much either. Just some Bruin in front of the net who fell. James didn’t even see anything awkward about it. The worst injuries are the ones you never see coming. It was Bergeron, screening in front of the net with Ranger marking him like a tracking dog. Ranger shoves Bergeron sending him backwards onto Bernier down in a butterfly. Jonathan doesn’t get up.

The fans are upset. They cheer and call out for Bernie to get up, to brush it off, praying that he’ll be okay and that they won’t put in…

Jonathan knows that he shouldn’t have started the game. He thought that if he could just keep a positive mind set, the pain wouldn’t bother him. Sure his knees had been sore, that’s what happens when you work hard, but the injury still takes him by surprise. The trainer is on the ice, asking questions and James sees Bernie nod. They replay Bergeron’s fall on the big screen. It was his left leg, baring all the weight of Jonathan and Patrice at the same time. Carlyle nods to James. The crowd grows louder, restless with the immobile Bernier and the newly active Reimer.

Jonathan stands. The crowd cheers. Jonathan doesn’t skate. The trainer pulls him along on a single skate, his left leg moving little. The crowd grows louder as James enters the crease. They cheer his name, not as a curse, but as a blessing. But what about Jonathan? What about his leg?

James forgets Jonathan and just plays. He ignores the fans and the flares within himself bursting at the seams of his blue and white jersey screaming, “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON JAMES?” The nerves are still there, they never really left and ignoring the hum and vibration under his skin is one way to deal with the problem. Things always find a way to work themselves out nicely don’t they?

The Leafs win, shockingly, in overtime, 4-3. The building is electric, fans shouting and cheering and for the first time in a long time the Leafs rush to the ice and congratulate James.

Jonathan is not with them. No, the other goalie is in the trainer’s back room and the verdict is immediate. MCL strain. Bernier knows that he won’t touch the ice for the remainder of the season. The news drains him of all emotions, leaving his mind silent. The room is empty when James enters approximately two hours after the game ends. The fans have all left, all gone home. The trainer left ten minutes earlier, letting Jonathan take off his third ice bag and dispose of it himself. The two goalies are alone. The ice machine hums loudly, disguising James’ footsteps as he tentatively enters.

“Hey,” James says softly, eyes gentle and trained on Jonathan trying to lower himself off the trainer table slowly.

Bernier refuses to respond nicely. It isn’t fair. He didn’t deserve this stupid injury. He glares at James standing unsure near the door.

“How are—I mean how does it—are you okay?” James stammers out.

“How do you think I am? Look at me for chrissake I’m fucking injured,” Jonathan hisses.

James looks hurt, damaged like a one-winged butterfly. “Oh,” is all he says.

Jonathan stands upright now, using the side of the table for balance, he studies James.

“And I suppose you’re doing just fine, huh? Everybody loves you again, right?” Jonathan doesn’t say it but James is looking very handsome tonight and if he had both his legs, he probably would press James up against the door and fuck him right there. He doesn’t. He averts his eyes because the navy suit Reims is wearing frames his hips and thighs perfectly and fuck.

Bravely, Jonathan takes a shaky step forward, faltering miserably, coming close to hitting the ground.

James rushes over immediately, helping him up by the arm, “I got you.”

Jonathan grits his teeth, the pain shoots up his leg and spreads to his sore hips. Reims wraps an arm around Bernier’s shoulders, bearing his weight. They’re so close, foreheads almost touching, so close Bernier can smell the shampoo from Reims’ still-damp hair. This is going to be hard.

They almost make it to the door before Jonathan pushes James away saying he can do it on his fucking own and he doesn’t need some backup to help him.

James freezes. His expression drops. Scrivens said it would be hard, but he can’t deal with this right now. No, this is beyond hard. He has—or _had_ , he doesn’t even know any more, feelings for Jonathan; real raw, passionate feelings that he tried so hard to fight  until it all just happened at once, he fell in a deep, uncontrollable love with the other goalie, and couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it and now, now here they are, the love is being stomped out by jealousy, hatred, and competition, and James, James feels so broken, so lost. He still loves Jonathan, he knows that Jonathan doesn’t mean it but when Jonathan says the word, when he calls him out as something lowly and lesser than his equal, he can’t take it anymore; he breaks and Reims can no longer be good.

“What did you call me?” James asks, voice calm at first, questioning.

“You heard me,” Bernier replies, not even looking back as he hobbles forward on his own.

“I am _not_ and I will NEVER be your backup. I have too much self-worth, too much ability to delve so low, _you_ on the other hand have the potential since you don’t care enough to even take care of yourself,” James spits out.

“Wow, James, when did you stop pitying yourself? It’s actually impressive how you managed to dig yourself out of a pit that big,” Jonathan stops walking, using the ice machine to steady himself.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you doing this? Why now?” James stands a good distance away from Jonathan, not wanting to come any closer.

“What do you mean ‘What the hell is wrong with me’? You’re the one who can’t even finish out a game, maybe you should ask yourself first before you ask me,” Jonathan isn’t even looking at Reims when he says this. He seems bored with the conversation as if it’s not affecting him at all.

And then it’s silent for a moment, the hum of the ice machine buzzing in James’ ears and he can’t take it any more. He explodes.

“Look at me, Jonathan,” his voice is sharp.

Jonathan reluctantly brings his eyes to connect with James’ unforgiving ones.

“What do you think I am? Some kind of long-term one-night stand? I’M NOT SOME KIND OF EASY HOOKUP, JONATHAN. YOU’VE GOT QUICK FOR THAT. THINGS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE HARD. YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO MAKE THINGS WORK EVEN WHEN THEY SUCK? OKAY? WHY CAN’T YOU GET THAT? WHY AREN’T YOU TRYING? Why aren’t you trying?” James’ voice lowers to a whisper in the end, shaking with emotion.

His words hang in the air.

Jonathan is looking off to the side, emotionless.

The lump in his throat aches when he walks by Jonathan, pausing momentarily when Bernier intertwines their fingers, but continues on anyway after a few seconds, leaving Jonathan alone in the trainer’s room.

Dion drops Jonathan off at his apartment because James leaves without him. Bernier takes the elevator up, staring emptily at the silver doors, waiting for them to open on his floor. The hall is silent as he limps to his door, sticking his keys into the keyhole and opening the door at last. The apartment is calm. At the door, Jonathan slips his shoes off with difficulty, pulling his jacket and scarf off and dropping them to the floor haphazardly. Moonlight dances across the dark floors as Bernier shuffles to his bedroom. He pulls off his shirt and belt before he hears the hushed voice behind him.

“Do you love me?” James asks.

Jonathan winces as he turns to face Reims underneath the covers, watching him with sad, tired eyes, the side of his face pressed into the pillow.

Jonathan says nothing, just watches him mutely. The curtains are open, the moonlight pouring in. He hates when the curtains are open.

“Do you love me, Jonathan?” James says firmly, yet quiet and broken.

James looks like he could fold at any moment, break down. He looks so doubtful and the silence grows between them. Jonathan limps forward unsteadily, eyes on the other man watching him. His face is patient, but James looks so upset as Jonathan makes his way to the bed slowly.

Bernier braces his hands against the mattress, sitting down gently on the side of the bed, looking James in the eyes, still saying no words.

James’ lower lips quiver as he forms the same sentence once again, “Do you love me?” It’s barely a whisper.

Jonathan doesn’t hesitate this time and breaks his silence, “Yes, I love you. I’ve always loved you and I still love you and I will never not love you, James. I’d fall in love with you a thousand times if I could.”

Jonathan leans in, pressing a selfless, soft kiss to James’ forehead, an “I’m sorry,” kiss, mending his mistakes. When Jonathan falls asleep that night, he does so only after James is, arms wrapped around the other man securely, heartbeats in synch, moon peeking through the window shining down on the two of them in approval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so so SO sorry that this took forever to update, JEEZE. After the season ended my motivation just kind of dropped of the face of the earth for a while until now. I'm also hella busy with schoolwork but I will do my best!


	41. I Won't Replace You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, I am so sorry that this took so long to finally finish! I love all of you who read this until the end and stayed with me :) I hope you all liked it!

“What do you _mean_ there are no more suites available? We booked the rooms eight months ago!” Dion leans across the front desk, ears tinted red with frustration. It’s late on Monday night, about 11:50 going on midnight.

“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Phaneuf, we just don’t seem to have any more suites available, I could offer you and your party the option just below a suite or-,” Matthew, the nametag plaque pinned to the front desk attendant, stammers, unable to fully make` eye contact with the furious Maple Leaf.

“Are you seriously considering giving us a regular-sized room? We’re full grown men this is ridiculous. I’d like to speak to a supervisor,” Dion rolls his eyes.

James stands off to the side with his duffel at his feet. The rest of the Leafs have already received their room assignments and settled down an hour and a half ago. It’s just Jonathan and James, Dion and Franson waiting for rooms. The lobby lights seem to be getting brighter by the minute, the glare weighing down James’ already drooping eyelids.

Jonathan sits on a couch staring boredly at the TV playing replays of a Caps game for the 3rd time. Carlyle was the one to suggest that Bernier finish out the season by coming to every game, home or away, despite the doctor’s request to keep Bernie off his feet and away from planes that would prolong the healing process. Jonathan didn’t object, especially after he heard the news of surgery on his Sport’s Hernia, he went with the idea that they’ll just fix whatever else he’ll do to fuck his lower body up. Since the Leafs only have one working goalie, an old friend was brought along to Florida for the Leafs’ game against the Lightening. Jonathan was relieved when Gardiner offered to room with Drew. Idiot.

Jonathan glances up from staring at his reflection in his darkened lock screen when Dion addresses him, “Room 228,” he huffs, pressing the keycard into Jonathan’s palm. The two goalies walk side-by-side down the narrow hallway, shoulders brushing against the other. Jonathan inserts the key, allowing Reims, looking like he’s about to collapse, to enter first, following closely behind and dropping his bag at the door carelessly. He almost can’t contain his annoyance when he sees the bed. They’re small, possibly twin sizes compared to the goaltenders, but James doesn’t seem to care, already passed out on the far bed on top of the covers. The comforters are blue with seashell designs, mimicking that of a children’s bedroom in a summer catalogue. Bernie grits his teeth, flicking the light off and stumbling into the near bed, facing the wall.

 

The room is dark when Jonathan stirs awake. He blinks a few times, focusing bleary eyes on the pale wall. It’s too hot under the seashell comforter and Jonathan shifts and rolls to get comfortable. The only sound filling the room is the AC in the far corner of the room, humming quietly. Bernier flicks his eyes through the darkness around the room absent-mindedly. And that’s when he sees James, squeezed into a tight ball, gripping his comforter, sad eyes watching the floor. Bernier can see the grief on his face, fear almost, can barely make out the thoughts running through his head about trade rumors, about not playing well, about letting everybody down.

Jonathan pulls his covers off, can’t bear to see James like this, releasing all the pent up heat from underneath his bedspread, shuffling over to James’ bed shoved against the other wall. There’s barely enough room for the two of them when Bernie settle behind Reims, tugging him close, bodies together as one. James’ breathing is shallow, and at first he doesn’t speak, the darkness consuming the both of them.

And the Reims is talking all at once, “I just- I mean, it’s not like I’m not _trying_ because I always am and I don’t think it’s fair that- if only I had maybe- I thought that if I didn’t give up then it would get better and-,” James falters, voice wavering.

“It’s okay,” Jonathan breathes, pressing a kiss to the back of the other man’s neck.

And James wants to believe, fights so hard to believe it, and maybe for a little while does, but the next night, the Leafs lose to Tampa Bay 3-0, and James feels the weight of the loss on his shoulders.

The same happens against the Panthers two days later, and Jonathan says the same words, gentle, no venom, no sting, “It’s okay,” and James doesn’t listen.

And in Ottawa, the last game of the season, Jonathan sits high up in a suite box, surrounded by healthy scratches. From his view, he can see Drew on the bench a little blue splotch and nothing else to Jonathan; soon to be traded to the Hurricanes is the word on the street. And James, James stands tall tonight, even when the other Leafs don’t and James sees 37 shots, letting in only one, but just enough to lose the game. And despite the loss, despite the goal, despite the downs of the season, Jonathan is proud of James. His heart swells with joy when Reim’s name is announced as the second star.

And on the plane ride home through the dark Ottawa air, Jonathan presses kisses to James’ hair, even though the other goalie is asleep, unaware of Bernier’s affection. Jonathan knows that the Leafs could never have gone to the playoffs, it takes a whole team, not two solid goaltenders, to win enough games to place them in the running.

It’s early in the morning when the two Leafs goaltenders shuffle through the front door of James’ apartment, slipping shoes off at the front door, dropping duffels on couches and making their way to bed. Jonathan pulls James close, wrapping him in his arms, grinning, pressing soft, delicate kisses to the other man’s forehead.

“What are you doing, Jonathan?” James yawns, but not pulling away.

“You know that I love you very much?” Jonathan replies, mind beginning to wander a bit.

“Yes, as do I, and…?” James replies sleepily.

“And you know I can’t stand it when you beat yourself up? When you blame yourself?” Bernie replies, rubbing a thumb through Reims’ stubble.

“Yes,” James replies almost skeptically.

The Kings are going to the playoffs and Quickie will most likely get another Stanley Cup, and Jonathan hates that. He knows that Quick doesn’t deserve that and it bothers him how the Kings can dominate the league like they do. Jonathan also knows that somewhere out there is April, clinging to another body that’s not James, and although he doesn’t know the full story, he knows she hurt Reims, hurt him just like Quickie hurt Jonathan, and left them each broken. Their heartbeats pump together in time, bare chests, skin against skin, silence and darkness enveloping both. Next season will be different, they will have time to rebuild over the summer and Jonathan knows that Carlyle would never trade Reims, at least not this summer.

As the Toronto city lights filter in through the open curtains of Reims’ bedroom, Jonathan draws James a little bit closer, speaking quiet words against his skin, “And Reims, no matter what happens, no matter where we are or what we do, you know that I won’t replace you?”

And this time, James believes him.


End file.
